


take the smooth with the rough

by longing-and-heartache-and-lust (the_ressurectionist)



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Blood Kink, Blow Jobs, Consensual Non-Consent, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, First Kiss, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, Knifeplay, M/M, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Pining, Reunion Sex, Reunions, Temperature Play, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:33:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 22,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28432476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ressurectionist/pseuds/longing-and-heartache-and-lust
Summary: A collection of geraskier(but not only) one-shots following my bingo card that I got for the Sugar and Spice Witcher Bingo.Half of it is nsfw, the other half is based on affectionate nonsense and tender kisses because I know no in-between.1. Size kink[Geralt/Jaskier, E];2. Rainy day[Geralt/Jaskier, T];3. Spending the day in bed[Geralt/Jaskier, M];4. Biting[Geralt/Jaskier, M];5. Temperature play[Coën/Jaskier, E];6. Going to a fair[Geralt/Jaskier, T];7. Reunion[Geralt/Jaskier, E];8. Knife play[Geralt/Jaskier, E];9. Predator/Prey[Geralt/Jaskier/Coën, E].
Relationships: Coën/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Coën/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 21
Kudos: 204
Collections: Sugar and Spice Witcher Bingo





	1. Size Kink

The first thing Jaskier notices about Geralt are his shoulders. 

More specifically - just how broad they are. 

The way his armour emphasizes them, the same way it emphasizes his narrow hips, creating a contrast that takes the air away from Jaskier’s lungs all the way back in Posada. 

And countless times after that. 

The thing is, Jaskier’s always had a thing for men bigger than him. 

Men that could probably break him in half with one arm, without even paying it much thought, which is one of the reasons he’d always had a talent for getting himself in trouble, flirting with men that had a rather strong preference for women. 

He just couldn’t help himself, really.

Naturally, said weakness turned travelling with Geralt into a nightmare. 

Having to come up with excuses when the witcher would catch him staring wasn’t the biggest problem, for Jaskier had an admirable imagination and could get himself out of pretty much any situation. The biggest problem was the irresistible need to _touch_. 

No matter what Jaskier did, he couldn’t fight the constant need to reach his hand out, run it over the witcher’s shoulders or chest or arms. 

He’d gotten over his uneasiness with blood not only in order to be able to help Geralt mend his wounds but also to have an excuse to touch him. To run his fingertips over the man’s firm muscles, press a palm over them, pat him on the shoulder, trying to hide the quickening beat of his own heart. 

After some time, Geralt got comfortable enough around Jaskier and then it became much, much worse. 

The first time Jaskier had offered to help the witcher with his hair when Geralt was too exhausted to be able to deal with it on his own, he didn’t really think it through. And when Geralt just started undressing like the bard wasn’t even in the room, it was way too late. 

He tried to, he really did, but he just couldn’t stop looking, greedily taking in every inch of pale, scarred skin, physically feeling himself blush when Geralt got to the buttons on his trousers, undoing them one by one, still paying absolutely no mind to the bard. 

Jaskier had seen many men naked. He’d slept with humans, elves, half-elves, even a few witchers but Geralt... Geralt was _impressive_. 

Enough to make the bard feel breathless at the thought of how it would feel to have him inside, how long it would take him to work himself open enough in order to even be _able_ to take all of him in. 

Running his fingers through the witcher’s tanged, bloodied hair, slipping down to his neck and shoulders every so often, finally allowed to touch, Jaskier kept thinking about how it would feel to wrap his lips around Geralt’s cock, wondering if he’d even be able to fit all of him in his mouth. 

He knew that Geralt can feel his fingers tremble, knew that he can hear his heartbeat and breathing but there was nothing Jaskier could do to help it. 

And the worst thing was that even though Geralt kept to his usual grunting, he didn’t protest. 

Jaskier had barely survived that evening.

After that, controlling himself got much harder. 

There were only so many excuses as to why he started keeping even closer to the witcher, always offering help with his hair or his wounds, why he started crawling even closer to him at night if they had to share a bed, why he kept _looking_ and _touching_ and _**caring**_. 

A few months went by that way but eventually, Geralt had had enough. 

It’s when they’re in their little shared room of an inn a little North West of Vengerberg, nearly at the door to head downstairs for a drink or two that Jaskier reaches his hand up to tuck a silver strand of Geralt’s hair behind his ear but, before he can do so, the witcher intercepts his wrist and pins the bard to the wall behind him, taking all air away from his lungs. 

“Are you even going to stop _touching me_ , bard?“ he growls, low and impatient. 

Jaskier can feel his heart stutter at the feeling of Geralt’s fingers digging into the delicate skin of his wrist. 

With just a little more force, he could break it.

That thought alone sends Jaskier’s head reeling and it takes his a few very long seconds to lift his gaze and meet Geralt’s eyes, the amber glowing dangerously in the low light of the fireplace. 

“Touching you?“ he repeats, playing the innocence card. “Darling, you’re imagining things.“

Geralt growls at him and pushes Jaskier into the wall with his entire body, making the bard gasp at the feeling of the witcher’s narrow hips against his own. Oh, how he wants to run his hands over them, feel the strong muscles, the sharp V-lines that look so fucking tempting that they literally make his mouth water every single time he sees them. 

“Imagining things?“ Geralt’s voice suddenly get’s even lower than it usually is, crawling right under the bard’s skin. “I can smell it on you.“

Oh. _Oh_. 

Suddenly, playing the innocence card gets a lot harder but Jaskier is not a man that gives up easily. 

“Smell what on me, Witcher?“ he enquires, deciding to test his luck and run his other hand down Geralt’s shoulder, nearly shivering at the feeling of the firm muscles under his fingertips.

Instead of answering, Geralt leans in even closer, pressing his nose to Jaskier’s neck, right under the sharp of his jaw, where his scent is the strongest, and takes in a deep breath, his other hand coming up to wrap around the bard’s waist and pull him closer, fingers digging into the fragile bones of his ribs. 

“It’s been going on for months now, for years, even,“ he breathes into Jaskier’s ear, catching his other wrist without looking and pinning them both to the wall above his head, nearly making the bard whimper. “But you just don’t have enough nerve, do you? To tell me you want me.“

For what feels like an eternity, Jaskier is unable to breathe. 

He just looks at the witcher with eyes open wide with both fear and lust, painfully aware of the colour spilling over his cheeks before he finally lets out a trembling sigh and averts his eyes. 

“How long?“

Geralt chuckles, showing off dangerously sharp canine that had cost Jaskier many hours of sleep, and pushes his thigh in-between the bard’s legs, making him gasp and instinctively try to set his wrist free, feeling his mind go dark when that does nothing other than remind him that he’s powerless against the witcher. 

“How long have I known?“ Geralt asks, touching his lips to Jaskier’s neck and tearing a choked, broken moan out of his chest. “Ever since I heard you call one of your lovers by my name.“

There is no getting out of this, Jaskier knows that perfectly. 

Ever since they met, no matter who he slept with, he couldn’t stop thinking of Geralt. Couldn’t stop whispering his name under his breath when his lovers were too drunk to notice or simply didn’t care. 

He did it much more than once. And he knows that Geralt had heard it much more than once, as well. 

“If you knew, why not do anything about it?“

Geralt scoffs, his breath hot against Jaskier’s neck.

“I’m doing something about it now, am I not?“

Geralt rolls his hips against Jaskier’s, tightening his grip on the bard’s wrist just enough to make Jaskier shudder all over, arching his back to lean into the touch. 

“You know, for someone who talks as much as you do, you’ve been awfully quiet about this,“ Geralt murmurs, nipping at the delicate skin of Jaskier’s neck and making him snap his hips forward without even realising. “I’ve grown tired of waiting.“

“Of waiting?“ Jaskier repeats, feeling his heart skip a beat. “What are you- you just told me to stop touching you.“

“No,“ the witcher retorts, letting go of Jaskier’s waist to tip his chin upwards, making him look at him. “I asked if you’re ever going to stop.“

“That’s-“ Jaskier starts, only to be cut off.

“That’s not the same thing, bard,“ Geralt says, softer. “You keep touching my arms and my back and my hair but you never go _further_.“

And then, before Jaskier can come up with an answer, Geralt is kissing him, hard and possessive and full of lust. He bites into the bard’s lips, runs his tongue over them, licking into his mouth to tear another moan from Jaskier’s lungs. 

Painfully aware of just how hard he is, Jaskier rolls his hips against Geralt’s thigh, pleasure sparking up his spine. His lungs burn with the lack of air, and with his wrists still pinned to the wall above his head, he can’t push the witcher away and break the kiss. 

Even if he could, he wouldn’t. 

“Did you really think I couldn’t tell?“ Geralt breathes out, breaking away when Jaskier’s vision already starts to darken.

He lets go of his wrists, leaning into the touch when the bard immediately wraps both his arms around his neck to pull the witcher closer, until they’re breathing the same air, barely an inch left between them. 

“I thought you didn’t want it.“

Geralt just hums, shifting to press his hips closer to Jaskier’s, and the bard can hear himself take in a shaky breath as he feels the witcher’s hard cock against his thigh. 

“Does it look like I don’t want it?“

And with that, Jaskier is gone. 

He’d thought about it for way too long, one fantasy after the other, for years on end, to hold himself back any longer. 

So he just pulls the witcher into another kiss, just as raw and hungry as the first one, runs both his hands over his broad shoulders, down his back, rucking up the fabric of his worn black shirt to dig his nails into the small of the witcher’s back.

He wants to take his time, he really does, but not now. Not now.

“Always thought of you,“ he whispers, breathless, pushing Geralt away just enough to take a step away from the wall. “For the last seven years, it was you, you, you.“

Without thinking about it any longer, Jaskier sinks to his knees, undoing the buttons of the witcher’s trousers with trembling fingers and peppering smudged, wet kisses all over his abdomen, moving lower and lower as the buttons give way. 

Geralt runs his fingers through the bard’s hair, gentle at first but then unexpectedly rough as he gets a fistful and tugs, making Jaskier gasp and throw his head back, looking up at him. 

“All you needed to do all these years was take,“ Geralt says, holding the eye contact. “And we would’ve been here much sooner.“

Still looking up at the witcher, Jaskier slips his hand under the fabric of his trousers, wrapping his calloused fingers around the base of his hard cock, nearly moaning at just how good it feels. 

“Same applies to you, Witcher.“

He doesn’t wait for Geralt to answer, doesn’t even listen to him, choosing to finally get the unnecessary clothes out of the way and run his lips over Geralt’s lower abdomen, following the V-lines that he’d been dreaming about for years and leaving a bite on the witcher’s hipbone, moaning softly when Geralt tugs on his hair in response. 

He’s painfully hard by now, lust burning through him like a wildfire but he doesn’t think about himself, only about Geralt, stroking his cock in slow, even motions before finally wrapping his lips around the tip, his sigh breaking off into a soft moan. 

Jaskier’s got a lot of experience in this kind of pleasure, he really does. 

But there is no way he’s going to be able to take all of Geralt in, even if he chokes. 

“Hold still for me,“ he whispers, looking up at the witcher for just a second before running his tongue over the entire length of his cock, following the throbbing veins. 

Geralt throws his head back, resting it against the wall, loosening his grip on Jaskier’s hair but not letting go, brushing his thumb back and forth through the locks. 

Making an effort over himself, Jaskier holds back from moving too fast as he opens his mouth just a little wider until he can take in the head, moaning softly at the weight of it on his tongue, at the slightly bitter taste of precome. 

He never stops the slow movements of his wrist, listening to every sigh, every choked little moan Geralt gives him, as he moves his head, taking the witcher’s cock in deeper until he feels it in the back of his throat. And then, without even thinking, shifts just a little more, keeping his breathing as deep as he can as he feels the head slip into his throat. 

Geralt shudders, biting back a choked moan that sends Jaskier’s head reeling even more so than before and though he knows that he won’t be able to go any further, it’s enough for both of them. 

“Fuck,“ the witcher breathes out, running his fingers through the bard’s hair in a praising, almost gentle gesture. “You feel even better than I’ve imagined.“

Knowing that Geralt _thought of him like this_ echoes in Jaskier’s body as a spasm of pure lust and he moans, sending a shiver through both of them. He knows what he looks like right now, with his lips stretched over Geralt’s cock - too big for him to take all of it in - chin glistening with spit and precome, and still, he can’t help but look up at the witcher before he can start moving again. 

There’s nothing that he wants more than to be able to go even further, nose at the short winter-white hair at the base of Geralt’s cock, breathe in his scent, but even as he tries, he finds that he is just _physically unable to_ and that thought goes straight to his own cock, nearly making Jaskier whine as he feels himself leak with precome. 

“You can guide me if you want,“ he says, raspy and breathless, as he pulls away just enough for the string of spit between his lips and the tip of the witcher’s cock not to break. 

He loves making his lovers wait, he really does. But not right now. 

Right now all he wants is to please, to hear those gorgeous choked moans that Geralt is giving him and know that he’s the reason for them. 

And it just so happens that Geralt doesn’t have to be asked twice.

For just a second, he cups the sharp of Jaskier’s jaw, tips his chin up, his eyes dark and devouring, before running his thumb over the bard’s lips and pulling him closer, the tip of his cock slipping into his mouth. 

“Breathe for me,“ he says, an order more than a wish, before getting his hand back into Jaskier’s hair and rolling his hips, making the bard take him in deeper.

He’s not gentle as he moves, fucking into the bard’s mouth deeper and faster, keeping him close with a tight, nearly painful grip but he’s _careful_ , keeping Jaskier’s limits in mind even as his moans grow louder with the building, sharpening pleasure. 

Jaskier takes everything with a hunger that he would’ve been ashamed of if only he cared. 

He runs his tongue over the veins, presses it closer to them as he moves together with the witcher, paying no mind to the tears in the corner of his eyes. His jaw hurts with the strain but he barely even notices it, moving his wrist in faster, harder strokes. 

And it’s when the tip slips all the way into his throat again that he swallows, hard, making an effort over himself not to choke, and that’s enough to push Geralt over the edge. 

He _growls_ , gripping the bard’s hair even tighter before letting go and spilling all over his tongue, trembling. 

He tastes just as Jaskier had imagined, and that makes the bard moan breathlessly as he pulls away and swallows, wiping at his lips with the back of his hand. 

Geralt looks incredible like this. Half-naked, sated and still trembling, he looks _ungodly_.

“Gods, Witcher,“ Jaskier grins, getting up to his feet to press a kiss to Geralt’s lips, sharing his own taste. “If only you’d told me sooner.“

Geralt blinks slowly, his eyes focusing on Jaskier as he pulls him closer and gets both his hands under his shirt, burning the bard with his touch. 

“I’ve told you now,“ he grins back, pushing Jaskier towards the bed. “But less talking, bard. I’m sure we can find a better use for my mouth.“


	2. Rainy Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in my mind these are game!Geralt and show!Jaskier but it's in no way connected to "you be my fire, I'll be your gasoline"  
> needless to say that you can imagine any version of the boys that you like, I just couldn't think of show!Geralt when it comes to this location

Velen is not a place that Geralt enjoys returning to.

Moreover, he usually tries to avoid it if he doesn't have a pre-settled contract somewhere in the area for it is simply not worth it looking for one otherwise. If he wanted to kill drowners and bandits free of anyone's coin, there were easier ways to do it. 

But more than the scorched villages and the nercrophages feeding on what's left behind by the war, he hated the weather. 

Every time he had to return to Velen, it felt like the wind and the constant rain were getting right into his bones, settling there and causing a feeling that he couldn't describe yet absolutely dreaded. 

And then, when he started travelling together with Jaskier, it got even worse. If not even his armour could protect him from the cold, Geralt could barely imagine what it's like for the bard with his silks and velvets.

To Jaskier's credit, though, he never really complained. 

Geralt could hear him curse under his breath when the mud would stain his expensive clothes, could hear him sniffle when the cold wind bit mercilessly at his face but no matter how hard it was, Jaskier never once actually said anything. Just kept following his witcher, holding onto the reins of his horse with freezing fingers. 

He would, of course, give Geralt a piece of his mind regarding the weather once they settle in for the night but everything he said was true and never once did he accuse the witcher of choosing the contract over the comfort of the southern part of Temeria - or Redania, which is even better - where the rain stops for periods of time longer than a couple of hours. 

He just moved as close as he could at night and helped the witcher with his hair if it got too tangled in the wind.

If Geralt had not given the bard his heart years ago, he would've done so now. 

Over time, though, he'd learned to feel Jaskier's limits. And it's when the bard sniffles for the fourth time in a row, wiping at his face with the back of his hand and wincing at the cold that Geralt decides to cut their travel short for today. 

"Come on," he urges softly, reaching his hand out to touch Jaskier's knee. "Let's find a place to stay."

***

By the time the reach the nearest inn, the rain gets worse. 

In the heavy, thin air Geralt can feel a thunderstorm building and it's already when the first rumbles of it roll through the clouds that he pushes open the door of their room. 

"I should get us a bath," Geralt suggests, placing his swords onto a small armchair in the far corner of the room and taking his cloak off. "Or do you want to go straight to bed?"

There are still a couple of hours before nightfall but he can see that Jaskier is tired - exhausted, even - and the bard just confirms it when he comes closer to hide his face in the witcher's chest, both arms coming up to wrap around his neck. 

For a few long moments, they stay in comfortable silence, just breathing together.

"A bath," he finally murmurs, almost inaudible. "But only with you."

His clothes are soaking wet, not even the thick cloak protecting him from the rain, and when Geralt pulls back just enough to cup the sharp of his jaw, his skin is concerningly cold. 

"Gods, Jask," he breathes, dipping his head to place the gentlest of kisses on his lips, pale from the cold. "We need to buy more suitable clothes."

Jaskier just nuzzles in closer to his chest again, his breathing slow and deep, and makes a sound that is neither affirmative nor negatory. It's warm in the room, the fire in the hearth casting shadows onto the walls, but Geralt can still feel the bard tremble. 

"It's never good here, is it?" Jaskier says quietly. "After the war."

He's right, Geralt knows that. The second war with Nilfgaard turned Velen into nothing more but scorched ground, soaked in blood and tears. Laying between Vizima and Redania, it got torn into pieces. 

"It's going to be alright," he promises instead, watching the trees bend in the wind outside. "The war is not going to last forever."

Jaskier doesn't answer this time, just nods, not letting Geralt go just yet. And even though Geralt would love to stay like this for longer, Jaskier is still trembling, and that has to be changed as soon as possible if they don't want him coming down with a cold.

"I'm going to go tell the innkeeper what we need," Geralt says softly, placing a kiss on Jaskier's temple and pulling back. "When I'm back, I want you to be out of these clothes and by the fire."

"There are easier ways to get me to undress than travel through Velen, you know," Jaskier teases but he's too tired for his words to have any bite. "But alright."

***

When Geralt comes back, he finds Jaskier exactly as he was hoping he would be - by the fireplace, in nothing but his smallclothes and with a blanket wrapped around him. 

Here, in an attic room, the rain is a pleasant thrum against the roof and even though the wind knocks against the window, it's warm and safe inside. It's comfortable - a word barely used to describe the places they usually stay at.

"Why do you never stay in Oxenfurt when I have a contract in these areas?" Geralt asks, undoing the buckles of his armour. "Why do you always come with me even though you dread Velen?"

Jaskier turns to him, taking the witcher up and down slowly, a gentle smile playing on his lips when he meets Geralt's eyes.

"And have you travel through this morbid weather alone? I love you too much for that."

It's not the first time Jaskier tells him he loves him, it's nothing near that. They've been together for years now and Jaskier says it so often that Geralt would think he would've gotten used to it by now. 

Except he hasn't.

Whenever he hears those words, his heart still skips a beat and then his entire chest fills up with warmth that flows through his veins all the way to his fingertips and knees, making them slightly weaker than they should be.

"What did I do to deserve you?" Geralt smiles, getting out of his armour with Jaskier's tentative eyes following his every movement.

"I am quite a catch, aren't I?" Jaskier winks, not bothering to look away even for a moment.

Once all the straps and buckles are dealt with, Jaskier lifts one corner of his blanket up, inviting the witcher to join him and even though Geralt wants to say that he's not warm enough, he knows that denying Jaskier anything is absolutely pointless, so he doesn't argue, just comes closer and gets down onto bear hide by the fireplace, pulling the bard closer to his chest and draping the blanket over both of them. 

"We could stay for a day or two," he murmurs, placing a kiss on Jaskier's bare shoulder. "We've been on the Path long enough, you need proper rest."

Jaskier's hands are still freezing when he wraps them around Geralt's shoulders but the witcher barely notices it, preferring to concentrate on the bard's soft breath against the crook of his neck.

"A couple of days in bed sounds very nice," Jaskier murmurs, brushing his lips over Geralt's jaw and tucking a strand of his winter-white hair behind his ear only for it to hang loose again a moment later. "We haven't done that since Roggeveen."

The sound of rain had always put him to sleep, Geralt had noticed that years ago. And Jaskier reaffirms that once again when he noses at the witcher's neck, the same way he does every night when they settle in comfortably enough, his entire body leaning towards the witcher.

"A couple of days in bed," Geralt agrees, listening to the wind howling outside and pulling the bard in closer, keeping him safe in his arms. "Promise to keep you warm."


	3. Spending the day in bed

On some days, Geralt returns from a hunt completely safe.

He returns with not a single scratch on him, only his tousled hair and glowing eyes giving him away.

Those are the days Jaskier loves the most. To his relief, most of the hunts end like that. 

But other days, the witcher comes back covered in blood, at least a part of which is his own, his steps heavy and uneven as he stumbles through the door, breathing shallow and ragged. 

Every single time that happens, Jaskier can feel his heart break but he knows it's unavoidable. He never tries to talk the witcher out of hunting, never tells him that it's not worth the risk, because he knows that that is just who Geralt is, what his life is. Becoming a witcher had always been his destiny and they both knew that if he became someone else instead, he would not have been the person he is now. 

Jaskier knew that there was a price for giving his heart to a witcher, and that price he paid with no hesitation every single time.

So when he hears heavy footsteps on the staircase, he's ready for it even though his heart shatters in his chest once again. 

It's a little past midnight, the inn still full of music and overlapping chatter so when the door behind Geralt shuts loudly, Jaskier doubts that anyone's even heard it. 

"Geralt?" he calls, getting out of bed and coming closer in hurried steps. "Gods, Geralt, are you alright?"

The witcher raises his head slowly to look at him, a long cut on his left cheekbone painting his pale skin with uneven streaks of red. His eyes are still darker than usual from the elixirs but Jaskier can already see the gold shining in the low light of the fireplace. 

Geralt smiles at him softly, trying to reassure but that smile is so weak that it just tears Jaskier's heart apart even more. 

"Foglets," he mutters, pressing a gloved hand over three bleeding gashes on his side. "Seven of them."

Jaskier can feel his hands shake as he reaches out to gently pull Geralt's hand away and he has to take in a few deep breaths to calm himself down. 

"Come on," he urges softly, brushing Geralt's hair away from his eyes and leaving a gentle kiss on his pale lips. "Let's get you out of there clothes."

Geralt visually limps as the bard leads him to an armchair set by the fireplace and it's only now that Jaskier notices he's got a cut on the inner side of his right thigh, as well. 

"It's nothing," Geralt says, sitting down with a pained groan. "We can be back on the Path tomorrow."

"Like hell we are," Jaskier retorts, reaching for a towel to soak it in warm water. "If you as much as try to get out of bed tomorrow, may the gods forgive me, Geralt, but I will kill you myself."

Geralt laughs quietly, running his hand through Jaskier's hair as the younger man kneels next to him, undoing the buckles of his armour with deft fingers. 

"Jask, I'm not sure I'm in my best shape right now," the witcher teases, his dry sense of humour apparently coming back to him. "Give me a few hours."

Jaskier just grunts, finally getting the tight leather trousers off him to examine the wound on his thigh better. It's not as deep as it could've been and, thankfully, it misses the artery, though only just. 

"You won't be able to ride for a couple of days if you don't want this to keep re-opening."

Staying in town for a few more days is not something that Jaskier really objects to. They've been on the Path for almost a month and the weather had only been getting colder with every passing week, so a day or two in bed sound like a much-needed break. 

Geralt winces slightly when Jaskier presses the wet towel to the wound on his thigh, the light fabric turning red almost immediately. It hurt every time but over the years the bard's gotten used to it. Witchers feel pain different to humans, he knows that. 

And yet, he can't help but touch his lips to Geralt's skin, closing his eyes powerlessly. 

"Let's stay for a day or two, alright?" he asks softly, wiping the blood off without even thinking, allowing for his hands to move automatically, out of habit. "You need to rest."

Geralt falls silent for a couple of seconds, getting his armour and shirt off so that there's nothing but his smallclothes left on him. Then, with a soft little moan of pain, he reaches down to catch Jaskier's lips with his own, the kiss warm and tender. 

"You're right," he says, pulling away just enough to press their foreheads together, breathing the same air. "Of course, we'll stay."

***

Patching him up is not nearly as hard is it used to be. By now, Jaskier knows just about every kind of stitch there is. 

Geralt sits through it as stoically as ever, clenching his fists but not flinching even as the needle goes through the delicate skin under his ribs over and over again, until all three cuts are stitched closed. 

When it comes to the wound of his cheekbone, he says that it will heal on its own and Jaskier doesn't object, just touches his lips to it gently, brushing a strand of Geralt's silver hair away from his face. 

"How are you feeling?" he enquires when the last stains of blood are wiped off and all the wounds are bandaged. "Do you want anything?"

Geralt gets up from the armchair on his own, holding a hand over his wounded side but otherwise looking better than some nights. Even in bandages, he looks incredible, Jaskier thinks. 

"Let's just go to bed."

Jaskier, who had been hoping for the witcher to say that, gladly follows him to the opposite side of the room, mentally thanking the innkeeper for providing the rooms with actual decent sized beds. 

He climbs under the heavy blankets, carefully moving closer to Geralt when he lies down next to him. 

"Will you tell me about the hunt later?"

It's been decades since they met but writing sogs about his witcher is something that Jaskier still hasn't gotten tired of. He doubts he ever will. 

"You really need a song about foglets that bad?" Geralt laughs, throwing an arm around Jaskier to pull him even closer, hiding his face in his hair. 

"Fuck the foglets," Jaskier chuckles, carefully running his fingers down the witcher's thigh, over the old scars. "I can turn them into a dragon in the song."

Geralt hums, relaxing into his touch. 

"No-one is going to believe you. There are barely any dragons left, if any at all."

He's already falling asleep, Jaskier can feel that by the way his breathing evens out. So he chooses to make the best of it, propping himself up on one elbow to reach down and brush a gentle kiss over Geralt's lips, cheek and jaw, slowly making his way lower, all the way to his chest, every touch so tender that it's barely there. 

"An archgriffin, then," he agrees easily, trailing his kisses down the centre of Geralt's abdomen until he reaches the last pair of his ribs and starts moving back up. "People don't really care how believable the song is, as long as it gives them a nice story."

"'Respect doesn't make history?'" Geralt murmurs, drifting off. 

It's always been this way: he could keep himself going for hours on end, even if he's barely conscious but as soon as they would get to bed, he'd pass out almost immediately.

Jaskier smiles at him, adjusting the blankets and reaching up to wipe away the sweat on the witcher's brow before giving him one last kiss and settling down next to him.

"Respect doesn't make history."

***

When Geralt wakes up the next morning, the sun is already high above the town roofs, its rays breaking through the thin curtains and splaying along the bedsheets in a variety of different shapes. 

Jaskier is no longer asleep but he's still in bed, by Geralt's side, flipping through pages of a poetry book with one hand and lazily playing with the witcher's hair with the other one. 

Once he hears that Geralt is awake, however, he forgets about his book altogether. 

"Morning," he smiles, turning to face the older man and moving closer to him to hook one leg over his thigh. "How'd you sleep?"

Geralt looks much better than yesterday, the cut on his cheekbone now closed and the colour - though not much - back in his face. He smiles and wraps both his arms around the bard, huffing with displeasure when all the feels is the soft fabric of his shirt instead of skin. 

"Off," he orders, pulling on the edge of the hem. 

Jaskier laughs, batting his hands away but doesn't argue, pulling the shirt off over his head and tossing it somewhere to the side, unperturbed by where it ends up. 

"Better, Witcher?"

Paying no mind to the protests, Geralt gets his arms around the bard again and hauls him on top of him, their bodies fitting together perfectly, and sighs, content. 

Jaskier, on the other hand, cannot relax, trying to escape the tight grip and settle back onto the pillows. 

"Geralt, by the gods-" he grunts, knowing that there is no way he's twisting himself free if Geralt doesn't want it but not planning on giving up. "You're _hurt_ , I don't want to disturb your wounds."

The witcher just shrugs in response, nosing at Jaskier's hair and breathing in the familiar scent. 

"Then stop twisting."

With a defeated sigh, Jaskier does as he's told, relaxing into the touch and closing his eyes to concentrate on the warmth of the older man's body, not on his wounds that he could graze any time. Soon enough, he does. 

For a long time, they stay like that, just breathing together, Geralt's hands moving slowly up and down the bard's back and Jakier nearly falls asleep again, wrapped up in the quiet comfort of that tenderness. With him, Geralt was different. And there was nothing that Jaskier cherished more. 

"What are you thinking about?" the witcher asks, voice still husky from sleep. "Your scent's different."

"My scent is different?" Jaskier laughs quietly, lifting his head from Geralt's shoulder to get a better look at him. "Different how?"

Geralt shrugs with one shoulder, his hands slipping down to Jaskier's thighs, each touch just as soft as before, no lust between them. 

"Sweeter. Like... bird cherry."

His fingers catch on the edge of Jaskier's smallclothes and, before he really knows it, they're both completely naked, legs tangled together under the sheets. It's comforting, to feel each other so close. 

"Like bird cherry," Jaskier echoes, dipping his head to touch a kiss to the sharp of the witcher's jaw. "Never would've thought."

Geralt's stubble is rough against his lips but it's more pleasant than not, so he doesn't object in the slightest, just leans down a little more to nip at the delicate skin of his neck, barely tangible. 

"You didn't answer," Geralt points out, no real displeasure in his voice. "What were you thinking about?"

Jaskier had never been the one to keep himself from expressing his feelings. He would wrap his affection in thousands of beautiful words and gestures, ranging from telling Geralt he loves him before they go to bed and writing special songs just for him to picking flowers in a field to make a flower crown or braid them into his hair. 

But sometimes he loved a little game.

"Not telling," he answers with the biggest smile, propping himself up on both elbows so that there's just a little more space between them.

Geralt cocks a brow in amusement. 

"Not telling?"

Breaking through the curtains, the sunlight makes Geralt's eyes even brighter than they are, the amber shining like the most precious of jewels. It takes Jaskier's breath away, just like it did years upon years ago, when they'd just met. 

He's dying to dip his head down and place a new kiss on the witcher's parted lips - a longer, sweeter one, but instead, he just smiles and shakes his head, testing Geralt's limits.

"Not telling."

That seems to be just about enough for Geralt and he decides to take this conversation his own way, flipping them both around with no warning and making Jaskier yelp in surprise, breaking into laughter as the witcher presses him into the bed, settling between his spread knees. 

"We'll see how well you'll talk," Geralt grins, catching Jaskier's lips with his own before moving on to his chest, steadily making his way down.

Jaskier wants to say that Geralt shouldn't move, that he's hurt, but his breath heavies uncontrollably with each touch and before he even realises it, his hands are already in Geralt's silver hair, playing with long strands and guiding him gently. They've been together for what seems like an eternity now but Jaskier still trembles, just like he did the first time, all those years ago. 

"Geralt-" he breathes, brushing his calf over the older man's thigh before resting it on the small of his back, careful not to brush over any of the bandages. "Come here."

He tugs on the strands of his hair, just hard enough to beckon his closer, and as the wotcher's lips slot against his own, they both moan softly, quietly, only for them to hear. 

"Are you sure we won't disturb your wounds?" Jaskier whispers, rolling his hips slowly against Geralt's despite his own words, both of them already half-hard.

"I'm sure," Geralt whispers back and really, that's all the encouragement Jaskier needs.

He cares for Geralt, more than for anything else in the world and if he wasn't sure, if there had been as much as an edge of hesitation to his voice, he would've told him to wait, would've said that they'll have all the time in the world once Geralt's wounds heal a little more but the way Geralt looks at him tells him everything he needs to know. 

"Alright," he breathes, cupping the sharp of Geralt's jaw and guiding him to his lips. "Just promise me you'll be careful."

From his lips, Geralt slips lower, running a line of soft dry kisses up the bard's neck and running the tips of his fingers over his ribs.

"I promise."

***

Geralt does keep his promise.

When they move, holding each other close and breathing soft moans into each other's lips, he keeps his every move gentle, rocking his hips at a pace they can both keep up with and whispering gentle words into Jaskier's ear that make him crumble to pieces right in the witcher's arms.

It took Geralt a very long time to learn to let go like that, to let his walls down and allow for the tenderness that he now knew could feel just as good as lust, if not better. And even though it's never been the easiest journey, Jaskier would've done it all over again if needed. 

He would've gone through all those years of taking a step forward only to take two steps back if that meant hearing all those words from Geralt and feeling his gentle hands and lips on him; he would've done it all over again if that meant seeing all those emotions in the witcher's golden eyes when he looks at him so softly that it's sometimes overwhelming. 

"I love you," Jaskier murmurs, reaching down to press a kiss to the top of Geralt's head, resting on his chest. "That's what I was thinking about."

They're both a little breathless still, the last waves of pleasure echoing through their bodies, and it's only when Jaskier turn his face to look out the window onto the silently falling snow, amber in the rays of the setting sun, that he realises how much time had passed. 

Geralt stretches, making a pleased little sound somewhere deep in his chest, almost like a rumble, and turns to lie on his stomach, still settled comfortably between the bard's knees. 

They both really need to get out of bed and order themselves a bath but neither are planning on it for another couple of hours, so instead, he just dips his head and places a kiss on Jaskier's chest before resting his chin on the same spot to look up at the bard and lock eyes with him.

"Love you more."


	4. Biting

"Are you sure?"

Jaskier runs his delicate fingers down Geralt's cheek, his eyes dark and devouring. There's something to his voice that would've made Geralt agree even if he wasn't sure. 

But he is.

"I'm sure," he says, doing his best to keep track of his quickening heartbeat. 

Jaskier is so close to him that his scent is overwhelming when it fills Geralt's senses, and he can't help but pull the bard closer to his lips, choking down a sigh when he shifts in his lap, pressing his own hips torturously close. 

"Have you ever been bitten before?" Jaskier murmurs, brushing his lips over Geralt's but not kissing him. 

His pleasantly cool hand travel down the witcher's bare shoulders and chest, not lingering anywhere, and though Geralt controls himself better than most, he still shivers under that touch.

"Not... like this," he finally replies, breathing right into Jaskier's lips

Even if the low light of the fireplace, Geralt can still see the elongated canine, dangerous and captivating when the bard laughs inaudible, his eyes sparkling. 

It's been a while since he'd found out and ever since he couldn't stop thinking about what it would feel like to feel those teeth on his skin, allow Jaskier to _feed off him._

He knows that a vampire bite is a pleasure like no other. Knows that once the venom is in his blood, his self-control will be gone and Jaskier could kill him only to have Geralt thank him with his last breath. 

But he knows Jaskier will never take more than he should. 

It's not a necessity to him, blood to him is like fine wine that's only truly enjoyed when savoured. And even if something goes wrong and he loses control, dying by his hand would be the best death that Geralt can think of, though he would never say it. 

"It's only going to hurt the first couple of seconds," Jaskier promises, his voice getting right under Geralt's skin. 

He dips his head down, kissing a line down the witcher's neck, barely touching the sensitive skin with his teeth, no more than a tease. Geralt loses control of his breathing, anticipation coursing through his veins like fire and if he didn't know any better, he would've already asked Jaskier to hurry. 

But he keeps quiet, nothing but choked little moans falling from his lips with every new kiss, and he's painfully aware of just how hard he is in his trousers, Jaskier's gentle rocking of his own hips against him constantly keeping him on the edge, and his own little sighs of pleasure against his neck only making matters worse. 

"Do you know how long I've been dreaming of your taste?" Jaskier breathes into his ear, low and rumbling, sending a shiver through Geralt's entire body. "Mending your wounds and then licking the blood off my fingers when you couldn't see has never been enough. Only made me hungrier."

He knows perfectly well what his words are capable of doing to Geralt and uses that to his own advantage, making the witcher's heart skip a beat painfully. 

"No-one's ever made me as hungry as you do."

And then, before Geralt can as much as take a breath, Jaskier bites him. 

His sharp canine pierce through the skin of his shoulder, right where it meets his neck, and Geralt gasps at the sharp sting of pain that echoes through his entire body only to be replaced by burning, suffocating heat a second later. 

The world goes dark in front of his eyes, and it barely registers with him that he's already got his hands in Jaskier's hair, pulling him closer and leaning into the touch with his entire body. 

All of his senses seem to dull and sharpen at the same time, sounds and light a distant, barely perceptible hum but scent and touch so overwhelming that he whines, a beautiful, broken sound. 

Jaskier never stops the slow movement of his hips, rocking against Geralt's cock, painfully hard by now. Each touch sends a wave of pleasure through the witcher's body and he can't help but chase it, shifting to meet Jaskier half-way but one of the bard's hands slips down to his thigh and pins him back to the bed, the grip so strong that Geralt is powerless against it. 

"Jask-" he chokes out, unable to concentrate enough to say anything else. 

Jaskier sinks his teeth in even deeper, giving Geralt a breathless, trembling moan and somewhere in the very back of his mind, the witcher thinks that that is the most beautiful song he'd ever heard. 

The fire in his gut burns brighter and hotter, almost unbearable, but he would never ask to stop, would never choose to end this, ready to give every drop of blood his got, ready to give his life to Jaskier if that means that the feeling will last. 

"Gods, you taste incredible," Jaskier whispers, breathless, as he breaks away, his pupils blown so wide that there is no blue left in his eyes. 

Geralt can feel blood trickle down his chest, hot and thick, and he nearly loses his mind as he watched Jaskier lean down and run his tongue over his skin to collect it. 

He presses his hips to Geralt's, both of them breathing out a moan at the touch. 

"I've never seen you so hard," Jaskier murmurs, letting go of Geralt's hip to move his hand higher and cup the bulge in his trousers, making the witcher snap his hips towards the touch without even realising. 

He can't feel the tips of his fingers, his head reeling when Jaskier finds his way to his neck again, though there are no teeth this time. He just presses his lips to the bite, allowing his mouth to fill up with blood before swallowing and running his tongue over the wounds, his venom closing them almost immediately. 

"Oh, Geralt-" he breathes, wiping at his lips with the back of his hand and licking the last drops of blood off. "Now that I've had a taste of you, I'm afraid I won't be able to stop."

There is no air in his lungs but Geralt doesn't even notice that, pulling Jaskier in for a heated, desperate kiss, the taste of his own blood spilling over his tongue. 

"Would never want you to."


	5. Temperature Play

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Technically this is a part of "you be my fire and I'll be your gasoline" since quite a few of my readers were interested in Jaskier's past relationship with Coёn. If you've read chapter 5, you know what the deal is. Can be read separately but why would you.
> 
> And just as a side note, Coën is a character that’s been living in my heart rent-free for a very long time now and since I’ve created an image of him for myself long prior Netflix casting an actor for him or Gwent coming out with a card, my Coën looks nothing like either of those options.

The bad thing about the North, Jaskier decides, is that sometimes it's cold even in summer. Especially at night.

And it's when they've just crossed Pontar that one of those nights catches up with them, bringing the cold from the river with it. 

Jaskier is alone in their shared room, hidden under a thick woollen blanket but even with the fireplace burning in the other side of the room, he's still cold. 

Coёn is still out, collecting the coin for a werewolf contract from the alderman. He did offer Jaskier come with him - after all, they went on that hunt together - but all he really wanted was to get back to the inn, wash off the blood and rest. 

It's been a long couple of days. 

It seems like it's been forever since he started his new song, writing and then crossing out line after line, the candle on the nightstand beside the bed barely giving him enough light. He could get up and light another one but that would mean leaving the bed which is not something that he wants. 

So he just stays where he is, waiting for the witcher to come back. 

When he finally does, it's only a little before midnight. 

He opens the door and slips into the room so soundlessly that if Jaskier couldn't see the door from his place in the bed, he would not have noticed. 

"You're still awake?" Coёn asks, more pleased than surprised. "Thought you'll fall asleep once the adrenaline wears off."

There isn't a drop of blood on him. If Jaskier hadn't seen it with his own eyes, he would not have believed that the witcher even went hunting. But then again, he was impossibly fast. 

"Didn't want to sleep without you," he murmurs, putting his notes aside and getting himself more comfortable, indicating to the vacant side of the bed. "Come on."

Coёn locks the door behind him, unbuckles the sword sheaths and sets them aside before coming closer and sitting down on the edge of the bed, reaching to run his fingers through Jaskier's hair. In the low light, his green eyes seem brighter than usual, the hint of gold that all other witchers have showing through. 

He leans over, placing a chaste kiss on the bard's forehead and lingering for a few seconds before smiling at him and standing back up. 

"There are still a couple of things I need to do," he tries, but Jaskier clasps his fingers around his wrist. 

If Coёn really wanted to leave, Jaskier's grip would not have stopped him, they both know it. And yet, he stays in place, his gaze flicking between Jaskier's face and his hand on his wrist. 

"No no no, don't even think about it," Jaskier says, tugging him closer. "There aren't any more things that have to be done tonight. Undress and come to bed, it's cold without you."

Coёn chuckles, the look of his sharp canine never failing to cut Jaskier's breath short.

"Do you always give orders in bed?" he teases but stays, nonetheless.

Jaskier doesn't bother pretending that he's not watching as the witcher undoes the buckles of his armour, just a little slower than usual, like he's deliberately putting up a show. 

He's got fewer scars than Jaskier would expect a witcher to have, the only prominent ones being the three deep claw marks that cross his chest from his left collarbone and all the way to his ribs on the other side, and a long curved scar on his right thigh. There are, of course, more minor ones, too, like the one of his forearm or the one on his shoulder blade but overall, his pale skin is mostly untouched by claws or knives. 

As Jaskier watches him undress, he counts all the scars he can see. When Coёn is left in nothing but his smallclothes, the count is seventeen. 

Once he gets into bed, Jaskier moves closer, throwing a leg over his hips to get all the warmth he possibly can. Though Coёn - just like any other witcher - is not as warm as a human, it's not necessarily body heat that keeps Jaskier warm when they're close like this. 

"Gods, bard, you're freezing," Coёn breathes, hissing when Jaskier places his cold hand on his chest. "Why didn't you dress up? Put on a shirt, at least."

Of course, Jaskier thought of that. Coёn is right, he'd be much warmer if he were to put something on. 

But that way he wouldn't be able to touch him this close. 

"If I put on a shirt, I won't be able to feel your skin on mine," he says, making the witcher roll his eyes in the fondest of ways. 

Without looking, Jaskier finds the medallion on the witcher's chest, runs his fingers over the smooth silver of the griffin head, and for just a second, he thinks he can feel it hum softly but before he can make sure, he already slips his fingers lower, running them down Coёn's chest, over the old scars, standing out milk-white against his skin. 

"Where did you get them from?" he asks, propping himself up on one elbow to touch his lips to the scars, kiss a little line down the witcher's chest. 

"Foglets," Coёn replies nonchalance. "Probably twelve or thirteen years ago. They usually hunt in pairs or groups, no more than four. Or so I thought, at least, and paid my price for it when it turned out that there were five of them. My biggest trophy yet. And a good reminder that even if you read all the books in Kaer Seren twice, it will not mean that you're prepared for everything."

"Hmm," Jaskier murmurs, content. "They look good on you."

Coёn scoffs, running his fingers through the bard's hair. The touch sends a shiver down his neck and he doesn't protest in the slightest when the witcher tugs on the strands, beckoning him closer to pull Jaskier into a slow, long kiss, parting his lips with his hot tongue and licking into his mouth. Jaskier's hips are still pressed to the witcher's thigh, and it barely even registers with him that he rolls them against it, a little spark of pleasure zapping up his spine. 

"Only those?" Coёn finally enquires, breaking away and letting Jaskier go back to the scars on his chest.

Oh, that is an offer Jaskier cannot decline.

"No," he says, locking eyes with Coёn for just a second before moving lower. "I'm rather fond of quite a few of your scars."

Over the time they've spent together, Jaskier has learned two things about Coёn: first, he's much more tactile than Jaskier would ever imagine a witcher to be - especially considering that the only other witcher he knows is Geralt - and second - his refractory period is non-existent. 

Those two things combined resulted in them spending three days in bed when they'd just met and then being absolutely unable to keep their hands to themselves even on the Path. So now, even though Jaskier is tired after the hunt, he just can't miss the opportunity. 

"This one," he murmurs, tugging on the hem of the witcher's smallclothes to reveal a thin scar right next to his hipbone. "My second favourite."

He dips his head, touching his lips to the mark and, when that doesn't give him the reaction he wants, runs his tongue over it, making Coёn shudder and let out a shaky little breath. It's truly gorgeous, how sensitive he is. 

"How did you get it?" Jaskier enquires, without letting himself get distracted by the witcher's hands in his hair. "You never told me."

It's unfair, just how fast love-bites heal on witchers, Jaskier thinks, running his gaze over the uneven pattern of marks on Coёn's neck, chest and shoulders. There are some on his thighs, as well, but Jaskier knows that they're just as faded, if not more. 

"It was my own fault," Coёn replies, lifting his hips when Jaskier tugs his smallclothes lower and then off completely. "I was still in training, my second to last year. Got too confident and decided that I don't need Quen on a training. My partner didn't notice. I hesitated for only a second, haven't repelled his dagger in time, and the next thing I knew, it was already under my ribs."

"Gods, Coёn," Jaskier smiles, shaking his head. "Your confidence is going to get you killed."

Coёn shrugs, mirroring the bard's smile.

"It might. But if it wasn't for my confidence, you wouldn't be here, in my bed. A fair trade, don't you think?"

Jaskier huffs a laugh, pressing a kiss to the witcher's hip.

"Not at all."

Having Coёn completely naked in front of him is just too tempting to withstand, and they don't have anywhere to be tomorrow, so Jaskier doesn't deny himself the pleasure, following the line of the scar with his lips once more before moving on to the witcher's thighs, fighting the desire to bite him. 

Coёn throws his head back onto the pillows, his breath getting heavier but keeps his hand in the bard's hair, guiding him. He loves it when the game is played by his own rules just a little too much to give the bard complete freedom. 

"Higher," he says, wonderfully breathless when Jaskier moves to his mid-thigh and oh, his voice is not something that can be defied. 

Jaskier grins to himself, sucking a bright mark into the tender skin, a low growl falling from Coёn's lips making him shudder, and compliantly moves back up, leaving hot wet kisses everywhere he can reach. 

They're both almost fully hard by now, and Jaskier simply can't stop at that, switching his lips for his tongue and rolling his hips against the bedsheets, thanking every god he knows that he'd decided to go to bed naked. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he almost feels guilty for ruining perfectly clean sheets but the coarse fabric feels so good against sensitive skin that he decides that he'll deal with his own conscience some other time. 

"Back in the forest-" he breathes, running his hand down Coёn's chest and abdomen to wrap his fingers around his cock, stroking it slowly and drinking in every little sound he gets in return. "I was so high on adrenaline I could barely control myself. Wished you would just press me up against the nearest tree and take me right there. Couldn't you feel it?"

Coёn's grip in his hair tightens, but the sparks of pain only add to the pleasure.

"I could," he says, eyes flicking down to Jaskier for just a second before fluttering closed again. "Trust me, I wanted that, too. But there was too much blood, I couldn't put us both under such risk."

"I know," Jaskier whispers, breathlessly. "I know, love. But I'm afraid you have to make it up to me now."

His fingers are slick with Coёn's precome, and gods, he just can't wait anymore. 

He leaves one more mark on the witcher's thigh and moves higher, running his tongue over the entire length of his cock, now fully hard and curving up towards his stomach in the most gorgeous of ways. If it was anyone else, Jaskier probably would've blushed at the way his mouth waters but right now that only turns him on more as he wraps his lips around the tip, moaning at the weight of it on his tongue.

There's nothing that he wants more than to reach down and wrap his hand around his own cock but he knows a little too well that he's not allowed, so he makes himself concentrate on Coёn, on his hand in his hair and the choked little moans the witcher gives him in response to every move of his head. 

Jaskier is experienced in this, and he needs no guidance, opening his mouth just a little wider to slip lower, taking in as much as he can until there's no room left, until he nearly chokes, his own cock leaking with precome. 

Coёn keeps his hips in place, knowing that Jaskier prefers to move on his own, but he _trembles_ and there's nothing sweeter than that.

Jaskier moves his head again, following every throbbing vein with his tongue and making sure to hide his teeth, moaning at the slightly bitter taste of precome.

He lets the head slip all the way to the back of his throat again and swallows, hard, knowing just how good that can feel and from the way Coёn's entire body flinches, his cock throbbing so pleasantly that Jaskier nearly whines, he knows he's close. 

But before Jaskier can push him over the edge, Coёn tugs on his hair, making him break away, and pulls him up, impatient and demanding. He bites into Jaskier's lips, wrapping his arms around his waist and flipping them both around, pressing the bard into the mattress. 

" _The things you do to me_ ," he whispers into his ear, low and dangerous, almost a growl.

Jaskier is painfully hard by now and then Coёn presses his lips together, he gasps, immediately trying to move closer only to be stopped with Coёn's hand on his thigh, the grip so strong that it's useless to struggle against it. 

"You told me you're cold without me, bard?" he enquires and by the way his eyes shine, Jaskier knows he's not getting out of this. "I might just know a way to keep you warm. Close your eyes."

Jaskier hesitates for only a second before doing as he's told, trying to gain control of his breathing. 

He can feel Coёn move above him, can hear him move something on the nightstand reaching for something that Jaskier can only guess is oil, but before he can say that it's in his bag, there's a flash of sharp, fire-hot hot pain somewhere on his chest that makes his gasp, eyes flying open. 

Coёn's tentative green eyes lock with his own, the witcher watching him with undisguised interest, a burning candle in his hand.

Oh. _Oh._

"Do you like it?" he asks, tilting his wrist and allowing another drop of wax fall on Jaskier's chest, just between the ribs. 

It hurts, it really does, so much that Jaskier can barely keep his voice down, but it feels _so good._

"Yes," he chokes out. "Fuck, yes."

Coёn grins, his sharp canine dangerous and captivating. 

"Wonderful."

He leans down, licking a strip up Jaskier's neck, and gives him a soft, praising kiss before breaking away again and tipping his chin up with his free hand, getting the bard's attention.

"Keep quiet," he says and then, before Jaskier can as much as reply, tilts the candle down, leaving a line of wax down the centre of the bard's chest, making him gasp and arch his back, clasping a hand over his mouth to keep his voice down.

"Fuck, Coёn-" he sniffles, his cock twitching painfully. "That feels- fuck, that feels _incredible_."

Coёn makes a content little noise, almost like a rumble, and shamelessly pushes Jaskier's bent knees apart, settling between them and pressing his lips to one of them, the kiss soft and comforting - a sharp contrast to the pain. 

"I take it, you've never tried this before?" he asks.

Jaskier bites through his lip as another drop of melted wax drips onto his skin. He feels like his entire body is caught up in flames.

"No," he chokes out, breaking off into a moan when Coёn runs the tips of his fingers over the length of his cock. "None of my other lovers were quite so... imaginative."

Coёn huffs a laugh, the smile softening the features of his face, making him look even younger than he is. 

"Keep quiet," he repeats, biting his lip.

Jaskier trembles with anticipation as he watches the witcher tilt the candle again, just enough for the melted wax to gather on the edge but not drip down. It's painful, it really is, and there is a very big part of him that wants to move away, to escape it, but that part is nothing compared with the lust burning through his veins that makes him breathless, makes his head spin. 

His cock is leaking with precome, painfully-hard and throbbing, and the world in front of his eyes blacks out for a second when he imagines Coёn's lips on it. 

"Please-" he breathes, unaware of what it is exactly that he's pleading for.

"Feels good, doesn't it?" Coёn murmurs, moving his wrist and watching Jaskier arch his back as a few more drops touch his skin, this time a little lower, on his abdomen. "Imagine what it's going to feel like on your thighs."

Jaskier doesn't have to imagine. He knows just how painful it's going to be.

"No-" he sniffles, praying to all the gods above that Coёn won't stop. "No, no, please-"

Coёn doesn't listen to him, preferring to lean down, rolling his hips against Jaskier's, their cocks pressing together for a short, agonisingly-good moment. He licks a wide strip up the bard's lower abdomen, moves his hips again, allowing for enough wax to melt. 

"The marks will only last for a few hours," he says, straightening his back to reach down and wrap his hand around both their cocks, pressing them together and giving them just one long, slow stroke, making Jaskier roll his eyes with pleasure and whimper. "They're not real burns."

Before Jaskier can gather enough self-control to as much as answer, the witcher pushes his knees even further apart, making Jaskier lower one of his legs onto the mattress, and tips the candle down, burning pain flashing through the bard's entire body as the drops hit the tender skin of his inner thigh. 

It takes him everything he's got to keep his voice down, and the way his cock twitches makes him think that he might come completely untouched if this last much longer. 

"Coёn-" he sniffles, unable to say anything else and barely even realising that his eyes are welled up with tears. 

Coёn dips his head, touching his lips to his thigh, right over the red mark left by the wax where it had first hit his skin before slipping lower. His hot wet lips spark another flash of pain up the bard's spine. 

"Has anyone ever told you you look beautiful when you cry?" he asks, and the way his voice sounds makes Jaskier's heart stop beating what feels like completely. 

Coёn runs his fingers down Jaskier's abdomen, leaving uneven smears of precome on his skin, slips between his legs, teasing at the rim but not pushing in. 

"Would you only look at yourself," he murmurs, tilting the candle over the bard's other thigh and leaving a trail of wax all the way up to his hipbone, making Jaskier whimper and tremble. "I could get you onto your knees and fuck you right now, with barely any preparation - if any at all - and you'd ask for more."

Jaskier knows he's right. He's painfully fucking right and Jaskier would hate him for it if only he didn't _adore_ him already. 

"I would," he says, voice shaking. "We both know I would."

Coёn smiles and shakes his head, leaving a calming kiss on the bard's knee. 

"You're perfect."

Oh, praise had always been one of Jaskier's greatest weaknesses, and he can't help but moan in response, a beautiful, broken sound. He's already so close that his thighs are shaking with anticipation, with the building orgasm.

"Hold on just a little longer for me," Coёn murmurs, putting the candle back on the nightstand and leaning down to catch Jaskier's lips in a kiss, pressing their hips together again. 

Jaskier can barely kiss him back, no air in his lungs, and when he gets his hands into Coёn's black hair, he realises that he can't feel the tips of his fingers. 

They move against each other, slick and hot, both of them leaking with precome, and holding on is so fucking hard, but Jaskier _tries_ , he tries, for Coёn, clinging onto his shoulders so hard that he draws blood. 

"Just a little longer," Coёn whispers, biting marks into his neck and reaching down to wrap his hand around both their cocks again. "Just a little longer, my love."

It's truly incredible, just how far he can push him. 

"I can't-" Jaskier whimpers, so fucking close that the tears welled up in his eyes start running down his face. "Please, Coёn, I can't take it anymore-"

Coёn murmurs something praising and comforting, his choked moans getting right under Jaskier's skin, and all Jaskier needs is just one more move of his hips to arch his back until it hurts and come, shaking, Coёn's hand clasped over his lips to silence his sharp cry. 

Coёn strokes him through it, and it's a matter of seconds before his own orgasm follows, and he spills all over both their stomachs, muffling his moan in the crook of Jaskier's neck.

For a long time, they stay like that, just breathing together, until Coёn finally finds it in himself to pull back, his eyes still dark when he locks them with Jaskier's and dips his head to touch his lips in a sweet, gentle kiss. 

"I take it, I've lived up to my promise of keeping you warm?" he asks, laughing quietly. 

"Oh, fuck off, Coёn," Jaskier snorts, pushing the witcher onto his back and saddling his hips. 

He's still too worn out for another round, that's true, but then again, _Coёn's_ refractory period does not exist. 

"I might just need a little more heat."


	6. Going to a Fair

"Geralt, my love, you look wonderful, stop being so hard on yourself," Jaskier says, wrapping his arms around the witcher's waist and hugging him from the back, locking eyes with him through the mirror.

Geralt doesn't really share the bard's enthusiasm. He's used to his armour, to thick black leather with only a few elements of silver, and that is what feels natural, what feels _right_.

A dark-crimson - almost wine-red, really - doublet with intricate embroidery in gold thread does not.

He knows that he'd agreed to this himself, knows that Jaskier had told him that if he doesn't want to go, he won't get upset with him and just go with Barnabas-Basil or one of his friends. But Geralt always went out of his way to make his husband happy. 

So, naturally, when Jaskier told him that there's going to be a masquerade and a fair in Beauclair, he couldn't say no. 

"The dutchess herself is said to be there," Jaskier murmurs against his neck, smiling encouragingly. "I'm sure she will be delighted to see you. After all, we were personally invited, weren't we?"

"Isn't the whole point of a masquerade is for the participants not to recognise each other?" Geralt tries, weakly.

"Oh, don't be like that," Jaskier huffs, waving a hand dissmissingly. "It's going to be fun, I promise. Besides, isn't Regis going to be there?"

That's true, Geralt supposes. Regis _is_ going to be there, which makes the event slightly more bearable. It's always nice to talk to an old friend.

"He is," he hums, adjusting the collar od his shirt. "Going to keep me company when you run off to flirt with the next pretty little thing you see."

Jaskier just laughs at that, circling Geralt to stand in front of him and take his face into his hands, getting a stray strand of silver out of his eyes.

"You know that never leads to anything," he smiles, leaning in to touch the witcher's dry lips with his own. "I can innocently flirt with everyone I see but it's only you I love, my darling. And only you I want."

Geralt does know that. He's not even jealous, never doubting Jaskier's faithfulness but missing an opportunity to tease would've been a waste. 

"I know," he finally says, stealing another kiss. "And yet, if _the dutchess herself_ is going to be there... She's got an eye for you, you know. Would be terribly rude of you to turn down such an important woman."

Jaskier snickers and shakes his head, eyes crinkling at the corners.

"Then it's a good thing that she's not going to recognise me."

-

When they arrive, the event is already in full swing. 

Jaskier's eyes light up at the music that flows through the garden and the way he squeezes Geralt's hand suddenly makes the entire thing worth it in the witcher's mind. 

Jaskier looks breathtaking in his dark-blue silk suit, the silver mask hiding just enough of his face for it to be almost impossible to recognise him yet leaving enough open for Geralt to still have the option of pulling his close and kissing him. in the witcher's mind, it couldn't be more perfect. 

"May I hear the password?" asks one of the guards at the gates, his own face hidden behind a mask with a long beak.

"Waterlilies," Jaskier says, repeating what's been written in their invitations.

The guard nods and gestures to the doors.

"If you'll be so kind as to follow me," he says. "Our most generous dutchess Anna Henrietta has arranged a room for you so that you don't have to make a long journey back home at night."

There is nothing about Jaskier's expression - half-hidden by the mask - that gives away his delight but Geralt knows him well enough to be able to smell it on him. Jaskier is, after all, of a noble family, a court man, and Geralt knows just how much he loves it when he's treated like one, even though most of the time he happily trades it for the life on the Path. 

Corvo Bianco, it seemed, was the perfect middle ground. 

They follow the guard through the garden and into a big, richly decorated estate with stained-glass windows and luscious flowers hanging in big round pots. The guard takes them to the upper floor, opens the door with a key and gestures for Geralt and Jaskier to step inside and make themselves comfortable. 

"If there shall be anything you need, the servants are on the ground floor, you need only call," he says, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves and handing Jaskier the key. "Enjoy your night, gentleman."

With that, he bows and leaves, leaving Jaskier and Geralt alone in the room.

"Oh, this reminds me of home," Jaskier sighs, a smile on his lips as he falls onto a truly enormous canopy bed covered with red velvet.

"Of home?" Geralt echoes, almost feeling out of place in such a rich interior. 

"Well, you know, my childhood home," Jaskier says, propping himself up on both elbows. "I have to be honest with you, Geralt, I miss all of this from time to time."

The witcher comes closer, sits on the edge of the bed, runs his hand over the velvet and sighs, content. It does feel nice. 

"Do you think we could get a bed like this for the vineyard?" Jaskier asks, pushing him down onto his back and lying down next to him, finding Geralt's hand and bringing it up to his lips to press a kiss to the knuckles. "It's not only amazing to sleep in but also-" his eyes light up behind his mask, and Geralt knows a little too well what that means. "Look at those poles, my love. I could let you tie my wrists to them if you were to wish for it."

Oh, that sounds tempting.

"Hmm," Geralt hums, non-commital. "Sounds intriguing. Though I might need to try first and then decide. After all, finding this kind of bed is not easy."

It takes Jaskier a second to understand what exactly it is that Geralt is saying but then he gasps in mock offence and shoves him in the shoulder with no real force. 

"Preposterous!" he gasps, a hand over his heart. "This is the dutchess' cousin's summer residence, and this is, I'm more than sure, the best guest bedroom. Anarietta herself might be sleeping in this bed while visiting."

"Yes," Geralt says simply, knowing that all of that only adds to Jaskier's interest. "And tonight this bed is ours."

-

Before that conversation can take them anywhere, Jaskier demands they go back to the garden.

Geralt doesn't object, just follows the bard down the stairs and helps him adjust his doublet before they step out the door. He feels just a little strange with his hair done up in a complicated bun but then again, Jaskier told him that it will help the witcher be even less recognisable, and there was never anything that Geralt could deny him. 

The disguise was, it seemed, working effectively for they've almost bumped into Anarietta - Geralt recognised her by smell - when passing the gates again but she didn't notice them. Or, at least, she didn't come up to them, to Geralt's immeasurable relief. He'd only ever said it to Jaskier but the dutchess was getting on his nerves and if he could avoid her, he gladly did just that.

"There's a Gwent tournament somewhere in the north side of the garden, as far as I'm aware," Jaskier says, making a non-descriptive gesture in the general direction, as they walk past a table with all sorts of baked sweets. "If you're interested."

Even with Jaskier, Geralt feels somewhat out of place at an event like this. And a few rounds of Gwent sound like a perfect way to forget about it.

"Sounds tempting," he says, reaching to brush his fingers over Jaskier's and take his hand into his own. He's still getting used to it. "Though you know I prefer to play with you."

Jaskier rolls his eyes in fond exasperation. 

"That's because every time we play, you insist that we play strip Gwent, knowing perfectly that you're a better player than me," he chuckles. "Honestly, Geralt, all you need to do for me to undress is ask."

"I know," the witcher grins, pulling Jaskier closer to shamelessly press a kiss to his cheek. "But where's the fun in that?"

-

He plays a few rounds without Jaskier, winning effortlessly every time while the bard is making new acquaintances by the wine vault where there are multiple tables with all the best blends of reds and whites. 

Geralt can't see him but he can hear him, Jaskier's voice soft and beautiful as he tells a group of young women stories about Skellige. They all gasp almost in unison when the bard tells them about that one time when they've been travelling between the islands on a boat and nearly drowned when a pack of sirens toppled it over. 

Geralt chuckles to himself, knowing perfect that they were never in any real danger for it was near the coast of And Skellig and if anything happened, fishermen or sailors would've picked them up almost immediately. 

Jaskier refers to him as "my husband", not giving away any names, including his own, and every time the witcher hears that, a little piece of his heart seems to melt. It's been more than five years since they've gotten married but in a way, Geralt is still not used to it. 

When the time is moving towards late evening, Jaskier joins him at the table, nodding a greeting to Geralt's opponent and leaning down to brush his lips over the witcher's cheek.

"Winning, my love?" he asks, blushing just a little when Geralt pulls him into his lap.

"As usual," he grins, to great displeasure to the man across the table. 

Jaskier murmurs something content, throwing his arms around Geralt's neck and sneaking a look at his cards. Geralt tries to hide them from him but the bard scratches his shoulder through the doublet and that's all it really takes for the witcher to give up and let him see.

Geralt's a long-time player and his deck is pretty much as good as it gets, nearly every gold card there is being in his possession but it's the final round and Geralt's opponent's got four cards in hand while as the wither only ahs three. By now it mostly depends on luck. But Jaskier might just know a way to get it onto their side.

"Win this round for me," he murmurs into Geralt's ear, quiet enough only for him to hear. "And I'll think about what you said back in the bedroom."

Geralt's golden eyes light up with a flame that Jaskier knows well enough to know that his words have been effective. 

It all goes very fast from there. Though Geralt's only got one gold card in hand, it's a Cirilla card which has the power of fifteen and that is what ends up getting him the win, when the man across the table, with his overall score of sixteen, throws a water card onto the table, making both of Geralt's archers drop from four to one.

He wins by just one point, but he wins. 

Jaskier can feel his heart flutter with anticipation as Geralt grins at his opponent, reaching over the table to get the coin they've put up. It's a rather impressive amount. The other player must be a count or something like that. 

He's clearly not too happy about losing his gold but he takes it as a good player, standing up and shaking Geralt's hand with a congratulation. Then, he wishes them both a pleasant evening and leaves, waving to someone by the fountain. 

"I won," Geralt states, still grinning and oh so pleased with himself. "What was it that you said, bard? If I win, what is it that you're going to think about?"

Jaskier laughs and pulls him into an affectionate kiss, one hand coming up to cup the sharp of the witcher's jaw. 

"You just wait until we're back in the bedroom, my dearest."

-

It's closer to midnight when they finally find Regis. 

Or, rather, when Regis finds them. 

"Fascinating how people always seem to want to disguise themselves," he says instead of a greeting, appearing out of nowhere, just like he always does. "And how they seem more attracted to each other when they don't know who is hiding behind the mask."

He's got a full-black velvet suit on, adorned with raven feathers, and a matching mask that hides most of his face. If it wasn't for his voice, Jaskier would've never recognised him. 

"Mystery is always thrilling," the bard smiles, taking a sip of his Est-Est. "There's something irresistibly captivating about a man in a mask. A woman, too, of course, but women are mysterious creatures in general."

Regis nods knowingly and also raises his wineglass. 

"Yes, women are... A mystery no man will ever solve."

They all fall silent for a couple of moments, and even though Jaskier knows that Geralt is thinking about Yennefer, there is no more pain. There hasn't been, for years now. 

It took them a long time to figure it all out, to talk everything over, and though it would come with tears what seemed like every time, eventually, it was all over. And it brought them so close that if Jaskier had to go through all of that again twice, he would. 

"Well, my dearest friends," Regis finally says, breaking the silence. "I've heard that there are prize-winning games starting at midnight, would you care to join me in testing my luck?"

-

Regis turns out to be a rather talented fisherman.

That is, given that what he's fishing for is a gold ring with a bright-red ruby in the centre - one of the three main possible prizes in the game. 

The other players look at him with both jealousy and fascination, loud applause echoing through the garden. 

Regis looks very pleased with himself - as much as Jaskier can tell, keeping the mask in mind - but it's only when they leave the deck of the pond that he asks for Jaskier's hand and places the ring into his palm.

"Beautiful work," he says, closing Jaskier's hand around the ring before he has the chance to refuse. "But it just so happens that gold suits you better, my friend."

"Regis-" Jaskier breathes out. "I cannot accept this. You've won it, it's yours."

Regis smiles - one of those tight-lipped smiles of his that doesn't show his teeth. 

"I'm afraid I must insist," he says. "If it puts your mind at ease, I don't wear jewellery at all. It gets in the way of making my medications."

"Of making your moonshine, you meant to say," Geralt chuckles teasingly. 

"The most effective out of all of my elixirs, my friend."

Jaskier knows said elixir a little too well and shakes his head with a fond smile, opening his hand to examine the ring closer. 

"Thank you, Regis," he smiles. "I shall treasure this gift forever."

-

Geralt refrains from any other games, saying that he's very happy with his winnings from Gwent and doesn't want to push his luck any further. 

Jaskier, however, overhears that there is a bardic competition about to start and he nearly runs, having grabbed Geralt by the hand. They get there just in time for him to take one on the last remaining places. 

All of the participants are given their preferred instruments and are told to improvise for three and a half minutes. Whoever comes up with the best song and gets the loudest applause, shall win five long ribbons of the finest Toussaint silk that the winner can then take to a seamstress and get their clothes adorned. Jaskier's eyes shine like the stars above when he sees the royal-blue ribbon. 

Geralt and Regis take their places in the audience, the witcher secretly worried, and try their absolute best at hyping Jaskier up by rolling their eyes at the other participant's songs to indicate just how non-impressive all of those attempts are. 

Jaskier smiles at them from behind his mask and giggles when Regis implies that he's so bored by one of the songs that he's about to turn into smoke and disappear.

When it comes to Jaskier's turn, the bard adjusts the collar of his doublet and the cuffs of his sleeves, stands up because he hates to perform sitting down, runs his fingers over the lute strings and takes his first note, practised and beautiful, as always. 

He sings about two people meeting at a masquerade and falling on love with each other immediately. Sings about them kissing in the dark alleyways of the garden and promising each other the stars. And sings about them not recognising each other when they cross paths the next morning while also searching for one another. They part, having nearly touched hands at the gates, to always look for each other, aching with love, but never meet again. 

By the time Jaskier touches the strings one last time, half the audience is wiping at their eyes, including Regis. 

It's an immediate win and Jaskier _shines_ with it when the judge hands him his silk ribbons and compliments both his singing and his lyrics. 

"Such a beautiful story," Regis says when Jaskier joins them. "Tragic romance is never going to get old."

Geralt can almost smell Jaskier's blush.

"Thank you, my dearest," he smiles, only a little coy. "I'm going to make sure to write more pieces like this."

-

When they part, it's nearly dawn. 

Most of the games and shows are over, the tables with food and wine nearly empty, and all the guests start slowly making their way home. 

Jaskier isn't necessarily tired but he's grateful to all the gods he knows that there is no need to ride back to Corvo Bianco. 

When they're saying their goodbyes, Geralt invites Regis to come visit them for a day or two - or even a week, he says - and Regis, in turn, suggest they come visit him at his crypt. Jaskier realises that they've knows each other for so long now that it doesn't even sound strange to him. 

Nearly all the guests are already gone when they get back to their room. 

"Remind me to send a note to the dutchess to express our gratitude for being so considerate," Jaskier says, shrugging off his doublet and rolling his sore shoulders. 

Geralt just hums, non-commital. 

"That song you've played," he says, letting his hair down which is a gorgeous sight to see. "Had it really been an improvised one?"

Jaskier blushes under the gaze of his golden eyes, untying the laces of his mask. Geralt's always read him like an open book. 

"No," he admits, averting his eyes when the witcher comes closer. "I've composed it a few weeks ago, when we've just gotten the invitations."

"Hmm," Geralt hums again, his half-grin making Jaskier's heart stutter for what seems like the millionth time. "Thought of me?"

The bard blushes even further, grateful the dim light of the fireplace is making it less apparent. 

"Always think of you," he says, leaning into the touch when Geralt hugs him from the back and noses at his neck. 

Geralt breathes a pleased noise against his neck, low and rumbling, knowing a little too well just how much of a weakness it is for the bard. 

"Of course you do," he murmurs, undoing the buttons of Jaskier's shirt one by one without looking and leaving long hot kisses on his neck. 

Jaskier lets out a shaky breath, throwing his head onto Geralt's shoulder and just forgetting about everything else for a few long moments before the witcher slips the shirt from his own shoulders to take it off, and he has to put the silk ribbons he's still holding down. They're all incredibly beautiful, they really are but as he sets them down onto a small round table, it's a pale-lilac one that catches his eye.

"What are you going to do with them?" Geralt enquires, letting the fabric of Jaskier's shirt fall to their feet and trailing his kisses down, onto his shoulders. "Order a new doublet from the court seamstress? Or change up one of those that you already have?"

Jaskier picks the lilac ribbon up, unties the bow that's keeping it folded, wraps it around his wrist once, twice, and pulls to see how it feels. The silk is pleasantly cool against his skin. 

He bites his lips and turns around in Geralt's arms to lock eyes with him and run his hand through his hair. 

"I might have a better idea."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one turned out to be a bit all over the place, really, but I still love it  
> hope you've enjoyed it too, my darlings


	7. Reunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, this was supposed to be a sugar prompt but then something went wrong

The city is still covered with a blanket of snow when Geralt rides into Oxenfurt.

It's still an hour or two before nightfall, the sky painted with reds and golds of sunset and the Academy is quiet, all the students still in their classrooms. Geralt can only hope that Jaskier doesn't have any evening lectures to give tonight. 

He dismounts from the saddle and hands Roach's reins to a stableboy that knows him well enough to know that it's been a long journey and the mare needs the best care she can get. Geralt is not worried about her, she's in good hands. 

He makes his way through the little garden - Jaskier's favourite place in the Academy, unbeaten even by the library - and into the accommodation block, where he takes the stairs all the way up, to the lecturer's rooms floor. Jaskier's room is in the west wing, third to last. 

They haven't seen each other in more than four months and if Geralt could, he'd be shaking with anticipation. 

When he knocks, there's a rustle of papers from behind the door and Jaskier's voice that asks to just give him a second. The sound of his voice stirs something in the witcher's chest. 

"Apologies, I've just been-" Jaskier mutters, opening the door but his words die mid-sentence. "Oh, gods-"

He freezes for a second, eyes wide with surprise and so impossibly blue, and then he's already pulling the witcher closer by one of the belts of his armour and kissing him, hot and eager, tearing a choked moan out of Geralt's chest when he runs his tongue over his lips, parting them, and licks into his mouth. 

They're still in the hallway, where anyone can see them, and though Geralt doubts that that would cause any real problems, seeing that Jaskier is no longer a student in the Academy, he still steps even closer, until they're chest to chest, and presses the bard closer to himself, one hand tangled up in his hair and the other one resting on the small of his back. He doesn't have to say anything for Jaskier to take a step back, leading them both into his room without ever breaking the kiss. 

Once they're inside and the door closes behind them, Geralt pushes him up against the wall, drinking in the moan that escapes the younger man's lips when his shoulders hid the wooden panels, no pain in that sound, only pleasure. 

"Geralt-" he breathes into the witcher's lips, leaning into the witcher's touch with his entire body, eyes shining so bright that it almost hurts. 

"I'm here," Geralt whispers, kissing him again, hard and passionate, cupping his cheek with his hand. "I'm here, Jask. I'm back."

"You're back," Jaskier echoes, right into his lips. "I've missed you so much-"

Again, something it Geralt's chest stirs, both painful and pleasant, and he exhales sharply, finding his way to Jaskier's neck, hands blindly searching for the ties of his shirt. It's been so long, so fucking long, and he can't wait any longer, can't control himself, the need to touch, to kiss, to feel burning through his veins like the strongest of elixirs. 

"Never spending a winter without you again," Jaskier whispers, undoing the buckles of Geralt's armour with quick, deft fingers. "Never again, do you hear me?"

"Never again," Geralt echoes, pressing their hips together to catch the bard's shaky sigh with his mouth. "If next year you're teaching on winter term again, I'll stay with you here, in Oxenfurt."

Jaskier smiles against his lips, letting go of the witcher for only a second, allowing him to put his swords down.

"You'll stay here?" he asks, the smile never leaving his lips. "In this very room, Witcher? Oh, that would be incredible."

Just as always, he's unable to keep quiet, talking in-between the kisses that he keeps leaving on Geralt's lips, and the witcher would never admit just how much he misses that every time they part. 

"Imagine us here, Geralt-" Jaskier whispers, his lips brushing over Geralt's as he undoes the last buckle of his armour which Geralt immediately gets rid off, allowing for it to fall to their feet. "I usually have lectures in the morning. We'd wake up here together, stay in bed for just a little longer than we should- You realise you can't leave any visible marks on me while I teach, don't you?"

As a response, Geralt just grins and bites a mark into Jaskier's neck, right under the sharp of his jaw, where he can't hide it. 

Jaskier sucks in a breath and moans, throwing his head back, before shoving the witcher in the shoulder with no real force.

"Fuck, Geralt," he groans, pressing a palm over the love-bite. "How am I going to explain this?"

The complicated laces of his shirt finally give way, and Geralt immediately tugs it off the bard, tossing it somewhere towards one of the armchairs and pulling Jaskier even closer, pressing his chest against his own to feel his laboured breathing, his quickened heartbeat. 

"Is anyone going to ask?" he rumbles, low and breathy, dipping his head to run a line of kisses over Jaskier's collarbone before sinking his teeth into it, unable to help himself. 

Without even realising, Jaskier snaps his hips forward, a loud, breathless moan escaping his lips. Geralt's sharp teeth have always been a weakness of his, and though the bites would sometimes be a little too hard, would sometimes make him bleed, there weren't too many things that he loved more. 

"It's not about anyone asking-" he says, both hands now tangled in the witcher's silver hair. "I'm an authority to those students, Geralt, and I-"

"And you're _mine_ ," Geralt growls, cutting him short. 

It's incredibly hard to argue with that. 

Jaskier's never really forbidden his lovers the pleasure of leaving marks on him, he loved wearing those but being marked and claimed and _owned_ by _Geralt_ was so, _so_ much better. 

So he doesn't say a word about it anymore, knowing that his image will not suffer in the slightest, but might, in fact, get even better once one or two students see Geralt in the halls and come to certain conclusions. It's not like any of them don't know they've been together for years now, seeing that they know all of Jaskier's songs and stories by heart. 

"Come here," Jaskier whispers, stepping away from the wall and guiding Geralt towards the bed, gasping when the back of his knees hit it a little too soon and he falls on his back, the witcher immediately crawling on top of him. 

There's still too many layers of fabric separating them, and Geralt just cannot have that, so he reaches for the hem of his shirt to pull it off but before he can do that, Jaskier takes his hand away and switches it for his own, never the one to deny himself the pleasure of undressing his witcher. 

Once Geralt's shirt falls to the floor, Jaskier's hands immediately find their way to his broad chest and shoulders, caressing and scratching in a way that makes the witcher tremble with anticipation, with just how much he'd missed this. 

He moans breathlessly when the bard catches his medallion in hand and pulls him into a kiss by it, wrapping his slender legs around Geralt's waist and pulling him closer, gasping into the kiss when their hips press together. 

"Talk to me," he pleads, arching his back when Geralt breaks the kiss and focuses all his attention on Jaskier's neck, leaving bruising kisses everywhere he can reach, sharp teeth grazing the delicate skin. "Please, Geralt, I've missed the sound of your voice so much."

Geralt's never been to much a talker, especially in bed, but he knows a trick or two and he also knows that Jaskier absolutely loved it. And anything Jaskier ever wanted, Geralt gave. 

"You want to hear me, do you?" he asks, low and rumbling, almost a growl that sends a shiver down Jaskier's spine. "What do you want me to tell you? Do you know how bad I've missed you during the winter in the keep? About the way I thought of you every single night, tying in our bed, thinking that I can still feel your scent on the pillows? Or about all the dirty little fantasies I've come up with on the especially cold night, imagining that my hands are yours?"

"Fuck," Jaskier shiffles, amlost sobs. "All of that."

He lets go of Geralt's shoulders and slides his hands down his chest and abdomen, until the reaches the waist of his trousers, undoing the buttons as fast as he can and cursing under his breath when the last one slips from his fingers twice in a row. 

Geralt never breaks away from his neck, kissing and biting only to lick over the marks a second later, complying with the bard's wish to hear him and whispering hot, intoxicating words against his delicate skin but his voice breaks off into a moan when Jaskier finally deals with the buttons and slips his hand underneath, wrapping his fingers around his cock. 

"Gods-" Jaskier breathes, his other hand coming up to cup the sharp of the witcher's jaw and lock eyes with him as he strokes him slowly over the entire length. "Every time we part, I almost forget just how big you are."

It only takes Geralt a couple of seconds to push his trousers off completely, kicking them off the bed and paying absolutely no mind to where it is that they'll end up, and find his way back to Jaskier, undoing the laces of his breeches and kissing long, messy lines down his chest and abdomen. 

Aside from the neck, Jaskier's skin is completely free of any sort of marks and oh, there's nothing Geralt loves more than that, knowing that he's got full freedom to change that. 

He doesn't wait even for a second, dipping his head down and pressing his lips to the inner side of Jaskier's thigh before pushing his knee into the bed to keep him in place and sucking a blood-red mark into the delicate skin, making the bard arch his back and clasp a hand over his mouth to silence a sharp cry, equal parts pain and pleasure. 

His cock is flush and hard, curving up towards his stomach in a way that sends a sweet spasm through Geralt's lower abdomen, and he just can't fucking help himself but wrap his lips around the tip, eyes fluttering closed with pleasure. 

Jaskier immediately gets his hands into his hair, not controlling but _guiding_ and rolls his hips, breathing out the sweetest of moans. 

Geralt takes that as an encouragement, opening his mouth just a little wider to allow Jaskier to roll his hips again, taking his cock in deeper, following every vein with his tongue and slowly moving back up until he lets it out of his mouth almost completely only to repeat the very same thing again. And then again, just a little faster and a little deeper. 

And again, until he takes in the entire length, feeling the head somewhere deep in his throat. 

"You've never told me, where you, ah-" Jaskier tries, breaking off into a moan and clenching his hands tighter. "You've never told me, where you've learned to do that."

Geralt pays no attention to his words for a little while, but then breaks away, just as slow as before, and grins at him, spit and precome glistening on his lips and chin. 

"Had a few teachers here and there," he murmurs, dipping his head to run his tongue over the entire length of the bard's cock without breaking the eye contact. 

Before he can say anything else, Jaskier tugs on his hair - just a little harder than necessary - and pulls his up to his lips, into a hot, raw kiss, sharing his own taste with the witcher. 

"Give those teachers my compliments if you ever run into them again," he whispers, low and husky, pushing himself off the bed to flip them both over and straddle Geralt's hips, leaning down kiss him again. "Though it would've been fun to teach you myself."

He rolls his hips over Geralt's biting his lip when the witcher's cock slips against the crease of his thighs, and rocks against it, making Geralt roll his eyes with pleasure, silver hair thrown over the pillows like a halo. 

"You know, Witcher," Jaskier whispers, adjusting the angle just a little so that his own cock could grind against Geralt's abdomen with every move. "I knew you're going to come back around this time - seeing what you've told me in the letter you've sent me when you were just leaving Kaedwen - and for this last week... I've kept myself prepared."

Geralt's mind is fuzzy with desire and pleasure, and it takes him a second to find a meaning for Jaskier's words but before he can come to any real conclusions, the bard already reaches for the vial of oil on his nightstand and uncorks it. He dips some of it into his hand and runs it over the length of the witcher's cock, making Geralt's breath catch. 

"Jask-" he breathes, catching the bard's wrist to ground him, make him look at him. "Jask, are you sure?"

Jaskier's eyes are dark with lust but behind all that darkness, there's still the familiar cornflower-blue and his smile is as gentle as ever when he leans down to brush his lips over Geralt's.

"I am," he says, guiding Geralt's hand between his legs and rolling his hips towards the touch in an inviting gesture. "See for yourself."

Geralt doesn't question him, just runs the tips of his fingers over the length of his cock to slick them with precome and pushes two of them against the bard's hole only to feel them slip inside with almost no resistance. 

Jaskier moans breathlessly and rocks onto them, prepared but still so wonderfully tight, and as Geralt pushes his fingers in up to the knuckles, Jaskier's cock twitches, leaking with precome. 

"No-" he sniffles, digging his nails into Geralt's shoulder and biting his lips. "No, not like this- I want to come with you inside me and I'm already so fucking close-"

Geralt doesn't need any other words, any other encouragements, just nods, nearly shaking with anticipation, and slips his fingers out, both his hands coming to rest on Jaskier's thighs, calming and guiding him. 

They're both breathless, and for a second, Geralt seems to suffocate completely when Jaskier lines up and slowly sink down onto his cock, mouth falling open in a silent moan. He's hot and tight and absolutely fucking perfect when he takes in the entire length and stops, trembling. It takes Geralt everything he's got to allow him the time he needs, knowing that though he's prepared, he's not prepared _enough._

"Talk to me," Jaskier pleads, again, his voice no more than a broken whimper. "Please, Geralt, I just need- I just need your voice, please-"

Geralt can smell his own blood where Jaskier's nails are digging into his chest, and throws his head back, forcing himself to take in a deep breath and get a hold on his self-control. 

"Come here," he beckons, pulling Jaskier closer, until he can kiss him again, slow and calming, one hand resting on his hip, guiding him in his slow movements, and the other one tangled up in his hair. "I could barely sleep yesterday, thinking about what it's going to feel like to come back to you. I kept picturing your eyes, your lips, your hands. Kept thinking about how it's going to feel to kiss you, hold you in my arms again, how it's going to feel to be inside you."

Jaskier breathes a shaky moan into his lips, gasping when Geralt rocks his hips to meet him half-way. 

"Thought of you," he echoes, nosing at the witchers neck in a way that shows Geralt just how overwhelmed, how desperate he is. "Every single time, lying in this very bed, stretching myself open, I thought of you. Of just how good it's going to feel when you're finally here and we won't have to hold back, won't have to think about that."

He's growing confident, rocking his hips at a slow but steady rhythm, Geralt meeting him half-way every time, and they both know that they don't need much. Not now, when it's been so long, when finally being together again makes every touch feel overpowering. 

"I don't have anywhere to be tomorrow," Jaskier whispers, his every breath breaking off into a moan. "We can spend the entire day in bed, only you and me."

Every time he rocks his hips, the fire in Geralt's gut burns brighter, hotter, so much that it's almost painful, and he doesn't even think about what it is that he's whispering to the bard but Jaskier _trembles_ in response and that's everything he needs to know he's giving him exactly what he wants. 

He moves faster, deeper, tearing moans and whimpers out of Jaskier's chest, and though the bard can barely keep up with him, knees shaking with strain where they're digging into the soft fur of the blanket, his cock is _leaking_ against Geralt's stomach and that's enough for the witcher to know just how close he is. 

His hand slips from Jaskier's thigh and in-between his legs but the bard catches his wrist at the last second and takes his hand away to lace their fingers together and press it into the bed, holding onto the witcher so tightly that it hurts. 

"No-" he sniffles, sinking his teeth into Geralt's shoulder when he snaps his hips just a little harder. "No, don't- I want to come just like this."

The bite sends a shockwave through Geralt's entire body and it wasn't for his desire to let Jaskier come first, that would've been enough for him. 

"Come on, my love," he murmurs, tipping Jaskier's chin up to kiss him again, lick into his mouth. "For me."

Jaskier bites into Geralt's lips, digging his nails into the back of his hand hard enough to draw blood and sinks all the way down, coming in one- two- three thrusts, his moan breaking off into a whine. 

The scent of his pleasure spikes up, filling Geralt's lungs from wall to wall and the way Jaskier _clenches_ around him is enough to tip the witcher over the edge, as well. He spills deep inside the bard's body, both of them still moving, taking each other through it, and it's only when Jaskier's knees can no longer hold him that they stop, falling silent for a long moment, just breathing together. 

"I love you so much, you know that, right?" Jaskier finally murmurs, a smile tugging on the corners of his lips as he slowly pulls himself away to lie next to Geralt, nosing at his neck when the witcher throws an arm around him to pull him into an embrace. 

"Hmm," Geralt hums, sated and content, a soft rumble escaping his lips when Jaskier places a gentle kiss on his cheek. "Love you more, sunshine."

For some time, they stay just like that, basked in each other's warmth, until finally, Jaskier pulls away, stretching and arching his back in the most tempting of ways. 

"So, Witcher," he murmurs, climbing right on top again, running his thin finger down Geralt's chest. "You were saying something about the fantasies you've come up with while you were away?"


	8. Knife Play

The first time it happens, Geralt fails to see exactly _how_. 

They're camping under the stars, just a little north of Elander, training together, when he intercepts Jaskier's wrist mid-air, making him drop his sword, and presses him up against the nearest tree. It's practised, effortless - an easy victory. 

Until Jaskier twists around in his arms, rips Geralt's dagger from its sheath on his hip and presses it to the witcher's throat. 

That, Geralt assumes, is what ends up leading to this.

They're in their room in Kaer Morhen, the keep otherwise completely empty, all of its other residents gone hunting, likely until morning. 

Geralt is seated in a chair by the fireplace, his wrist bound together behind his back with red rope, silver hair falling down his shoulders. He's shirtless and open, which makes him a perfect canvas for Jaskier that looks at him with a fire in his impossibly blue eyes, still fully clothed.

Slowly, he comes closer, runs a gentle hand through Geralt's untied hair, his fingers slipping to the witcher's shoulder as Jaskier circles him and stops right behind, leaning down to nose at his neck and leave a soft kiss on the tender skin. 

Unconsciously, Geralt reaches out for him but the rope keeps his arms in place. 

It's strange, being bound, but it's not the first time that rope has touched his skin. 

"Are you ready, my love?" Jaskier murmurs, his breath ghosting over Geralt's ear. 

He doesn't answer, just nods, and Jaskier knows him well enough not to demand anything more. He hums to himself and circles the witcher again, pressing one knee in-between his legs and reaching to grab the back of the chair, leaning into Geralt's space, nearly touching his lips with a kiss. 

"If you want to stop, all you need to do is tell me, alright?" he asks, soft but insistent.

Geralt nods, again, and his breath hitches when Jaskier reaches for the sheath on his calf and runs the tip of his dagger up the witcher's chest, barely touching. Once he reaches his throat, he flips the dagger to its side and presses the edge to the tender skin, razor-sharp blade barely grazing the skin but keeping Geralt in place. 

"Beautiful," Jaskier breathes, shifting to throw his leg over Geralt's, straddling his hips. "Would you only look at yourself, so open for me."

Geralt can feel his breath getting heavier, deeper, and he can't help but lean into the touch when the bard dips his head to touch a soft, calming kiss over his collarbone. 

He's painfully aware of just how hard he is, the thick leather of his trousers now much tighter than it's supposed to be. He rolls his hips, almost unconsciously, when Jaskier rocks against him, mouth falling open in a silent moan. 

The cold silver of the dagger slithers down his skin, nearly making him shiver with anticipation, but Jaskier takes his time, slowly making him way from Geralt's chest to his neck, leaving hot, wet kisses behind. His other hand, free of the dagger, is tangled in the witcher's hair as he plays with the long strands, tugging on them just hard enough to cause little sparks of pain, just on the right side of maddening. 

"You know, Witcher," Jaskier murmurs, a sweet purr to his voice. "When we'd just met, I never would've thought you'd be quite so... compliant."

Geralt wants to object, wants to growl a warning but Jaskier puts the dagger to his throat again, silencing him. 

"Hush, my love," he smiles, flipping the dagger to run its flat side over the witcher's cheek. "Be good for me."

He rolls his hips against Geralt's again, letting go of his hair and running a hand down his broad chest, twisting a nipple between his fingers and making the witcher shudder, bucking his hips. 

"So sensitive," Jaskier says, leaning down to touch Geralt's lips with his own for only a second before breaking away and allowing for the sharp edge of the dagger to slip over his collarbone, splitting the tender skin open. 

Geralt throws his head back, moaning breathlessly as he feels a thin trail of blood run down his chest that Jaskier immediately collects with his tongue, never stopping the slow movements of his hips, rocking against Geralt's hard cock. 

"That's it," he praises, finding his way to the bleeding cut and putting his mouth over it, licking at the wound and sucking just hard enough for blood to coat his tongue. 

They both know that by morning, all the marks that he leaves on Geralt are going to close and fade, and by the morning after that, they're going to be gone completely. Which is why he's not scared. 

"You're doing so good," he murmurs, breaking away only to run the edge of his dagger over the witcher's chest, leaving another cut on his pale skin, and press his lips to that one, moaning with pleasure. "Always take everything I've got to give you so well."

When he pulls back, his pupils are blown so wide that there is almost no blue left in his eyes, lips parted and painted with blood. He looks incredible like this, Geralt realises through the haze in his mind. 

"I'm not going to torture you too long," Jaskier promises, shifting just enough to reach his hand down and cup the bulge in the witcher's trousers, press the heel of his hand against it, nearly making Geralt whine. "And once I take what I want, I'll give you anything that you ask for, my love."

He clenches his fingers tighter, stroking Geralt through the leather of his trousers, and leans down to his ear, voice low with lust.

"Remember how you told me you want to take me without getting me properly prepared?" he whispers, undoing the buttons of the witcher's trousers to slips his fingers underneath. "I've been thinking about that ever since."

Geralt does remember. It's a fantasy that's been with him for months now, somewhere in the back of his mind. 

Jaskier doesn't let him answer, however, wrapping his fingers around the base of his cock, hard and throbbing, stroking him slowly as he leans down to Geralt's shoulder, right where it meets his neck, and right after he touches his lips to it, there's a bright flash of pain, agonisingly good. 

The scent of blood is making Geralt's head spin, and he bites his lip, hard, to silence a moan that bubbles in his chest. 

Jaskier moves his wrist faster, pushing Geralt closer to the edge, making him shudder and nearly whimper, struggling against the rope binding his wrist together. It's too much to take, with Jaskier's lips and tongue all over him, the bright flashes of pain in the fresh cuts and the bard's impossibly perfect fingers around him. 

Geralt finds himself panting, growing light-headed from hyperventilation, and he fails to bite back a moan when the razor-sharp edge of Jaskier's dagger slips down his chest again, the scent of blood only growing stronger. 

"Not yet, my love," Jaskier murmurs, taking his hand away when he can feel the witcher's abdomen tense with building orgasm. "Just a little longer. For me."

Geralt knows he's waiting for an answer, so he hums something affirmative, closing his eyes to get his breathing back under control. 

He doesn't manage to, because there's suddenly a new cut on his shoulder and the heat of Jaskier's mouth over it as he runs his tongue over it, gorgeous;y breathless when he moans. 

"Do you think you'll be able to come just like this?" he asks, rocking against Geralt's cock again, harder than before. 

"You'll ruin your clothes," Geralt rasps, barely able to get his vision to focus. 

For a second, Jaskier stops, his darkened eyes shining like a wildfire, lips and chin covered in blood. He wipes it off with the back of his hand and stands up, making Geralt whine at the loss. 

"I'm right here," he murmurs, calming, setting his bloodied dagger aside and getting rid of his shirt and breeches before getting back into the witcher's lap, his bare skin so hot that it nearly burns. 

He shifts, adjusting himself so that every time he rolls his hips, Geralt's cock slides over the crease of his thighs, and gods, that's enough to push Geralt back to the edge almost instantly. 

"Just a little longer," Jaskier whispers, planting both hands on Geralt's shoulders to steady himself, his own cock throbbing and wet with precome. "Close your eyes and think about all the things you'll be able to do to me."

The cut on Geralt's shoulder is the deepest one and it's still bleeding just as much as before, allowing the bard to press his mouth over it, sink his teeth in, making Geralt arch his back with both pain and pleasure, leaning into the touch. He can't help but snap his hips up, meeting Jaskier half-way every time, already so close that he struggles to breathe. 

He knows Jaskier wants it, too, can feel it in the way he moves, in the way he loses his pace, and when the bard sinks his teeth into his shoulder even harder, breaking the skin, he lets himself go, shaking as he comes in three- four- five hard thrusts. 

Jaskier clenches his fingers on his shoulder, nails digging into the skin, taking him through it, before slowing down and finally coming to a stop, breathing hard against the witcher's neck. 

"Gods-" he whispers, almost a sob. "You do know just how much I love you, don't you?"

More than anything, Geralt wants to wrap his arms around Jaskier, press him closer to his chest, feel his heartbeat but the rope around his wrist keeps him in place. 

"I know," he breathes, closing his eyes and resting his forehead on the bard's shoulder. "Love you more."

They stay like that for a few long seconds, Jaskier gently playing with the witcher's silver hair, the room filled with the scent of blood, sweat and sex. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Geralt thinks that that's what _their_ scent is like.

"You did so well, my love," Jaskier smiles, leaning down to kiss him before leaving the witcher's lap and circling him to untie the rope. 

He knows his way around the intricate knots, undoing them with quick, deft fingers until the length of the rope falls onto the floor. 

"And now I'm all yours."


	9. Predator/Prey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is completely self-indulgent and I have nothing to say for myself other that these two witchers own my heart  
> CW: pre-discussed and fully consensual non-con

Jaskier runs. 

He knows he won't be able to get away, won't be able to outrun his pursuers but he still runs. 

Because he has to, because his instincts are stronger than the knowledge that he is just wearing himself out. 

If I only get back to the keep, he thinks, If only I last long enough to make it through the forest and to the river. 

His lungs burn with the lack of air and the muscles in his legs ache but he doesn't stop. 

It's hard to make out his way in the darkness quickly settling over the forest and every time he thinks he can hear the whisper of the river somewhere behind the trees, he loses it behind the sound of his own frantically beating heart. 

He stops for only a second, sucking in a desperate breath and trying to find his way to the keep. He knows it's east of the part of the forest he's in but he's been running for so long now that no matter how hard he tries, he doesn't know which direction he's facing. 

There's a snap somewhere behind him and his entire body tenses up, knees shaking with exhaustion before he breaks into a run again.

He knows that he won't be able to get away, knows that his scent's already been picked up and now there is no way that he'll be able to save himself but staying in place is not something that his instincts allow him to do. 

He makes another sharp turn, finding himself in a small clearing, filled with moonlight. He swallows around the lump in his throat, trying to force himself to keep moving but then, there's another snap, right next to him and before he knows it, he's already on the ground.

"Going far, little bard?"

His head is spinning so hard the world in front of his eyes is but a blur but he doesn't need to look to recognise Coën's voice, the soft teasing purr he's got to it. 

The witcher pins him to the ground, intercepting both his wrist to hold them above his head and straddling his hips, leaving Jaskier completely helpless. 

He leans down and noses at his neck, taking in a deep breath to inhale his scent. 

"You really are something else, songbird," he murmurs, a flash of dangerously sharp teeth to his grin. "I can smell the lust burning through your veins."

He dips his head, leaving a hot, open-mouthed kiss on the bard's neck, and Jaskier flexes his arms, struggling against his grip but they both know he's defenceless against a witcher's strength. His skin seems to burn up where Coën touches his lips to it. 

"Let go-" he sniffles, arching into the touch despite his own words when Coën rolls his hips against Jaskier's.

He knows he can stop him, knows that all it takes is a safe-word. But he doesn't want to. The fear is what he'd wanted for years now. 

"Let go?" Coën echoes, licking a strip up the bard's neck before sinking his teeth into the tender skin, tearing a broken cry out of Jaskier's chest. "We're only just getting started."

The witcher leans down as if to kiss him but at the last moment, there's a soft rustle of leaves somewhere behind Jaskier's head and he flicks his gaze in the direction, a familiar grin tugs on the corners of his lips. 

"Wolf," he acknowledges and Jaskier's heart skips a beat at that sound. "Here to share the prey?"

Coën is way too good with words, Jaskier's learned that on the very first night they've spent together and though it seems like he's got to be used to it by now, he isn't, and there's a shiver that runs down his spine at the sound of the witcher's voice. 

Geralt chuckles, low and promising, as he comes closer, but before Jaskier can as much as say something, Coën already shifts, leaving his hips, and gets him up to his knees, making the bard feel like he's no more but a toy in his hands. 

More than anything, Jaskier wants to hide his eyes, knowing that they're shining brighter than they're supposed to, darkening with every new touch, but Coën doesn't allow him, wrapping his hand around his neck and pressing his thumb to the sharp of his jaw, making the bard look up.

"So many things we could do to you," Geralt murmurs, deceivingly-soft. "What should we start with?"

He reaches his hand out, brushes a lock of the bard's hair away from his face and Jaskier almost leans into it but the younger witcher keeps him in place, Jaskier's back pressed against his chest. He can hear Coën undo one of the belts of his armour and he's expecting anything but not what follows. 

The soft, worn leather of the belt touches his wrists, wraps around them, tightening until it's almost painful, and bounds his arms, making Jaskier bite back a sob. He's helpless like this, and they all know it a little too well. 

Jaskier doesn't have a doublet on, only a dark-blue shirt and breeches to match, and he shudders when Coën pulls on the hem of his chemise to untuck it and slip his fingers underneath, running them over the bard's bare skin. His lips are on Jaskier's neck again, leaving painful, bruising kisses on the delicate skin. 

Jaskier clenches his jaw to try and stay silent but a whimper still falls from his lips.

"You like it, don't you?" Coën whispers into his ear, burning the sensitive skin with his breath. "Knowing that there is nothing you can do against us."

He does. Never in his life would he tell anyone aside from his two witchers but he does. There aren't many things that he loves more than feeling the sheer power of his lovers' when they choose to show it, and allowing them to do anything they want with him. 

He bites his lip, nearly tearing through soft flesh when Coën's hand slips lower, his nails leaving red marks on Jaskier's skin, and cups his hardening cock through the light fabric of his breeches. Without thinking, Jaskier rolls his hips, trying to both lean into the touch and squirm away from it. 

He feels trapped, caught in-between two flames, and getting out of this is not a choice that he has. 

"Look at me," Geralt orders, making Jaskier's eyes snap back to him as he undoes the buttons of his trousers. "And keep looking."

Coën clenches his fingers tighter, nearly making Jaskier whine, and he can feel his mouth water when Geralt shoves his trousers just a little lower, together with his smallclothes, taking himself in hand and stroking slowly. He's fully hard, and Jaskier barely realises that he licks his lips at the sight. 

Before he can say anything, Geralt already gets his hand into his hair and pulls the bard closer, demanding and impatient, making Jaskier arch his back but comply, wrapping his lips around the head. The weight of it on his tongue feels familiar, pleasurable, _right._ He thinks that one day he's going to talk to both his witchers about what they've turned him into but now that doesn't matter, and he concentrates on his task, moaning breathlessly when Geralt tugs on his hair. 

He takes as much time as he can, working the witcher over with his tongue and struggling not to hide his eyes, to keep looking. But Geralt gets tired of that much faster than the bard had hoped and tugs on his hair again, hard and merciless, making Jaskier open his mouth wider and take his cock in deeper. 

It's nearly impossible to breathe like this and Jaskier can feel the tears in the corners of his eyes but he can't break away, can't even say anything, just complies, because he's got no other choice. He's fully hard now and every move of Coën's fingers sends a fire-hot wave of pleasure up his spine, making him whimper and lean into every touch despite himself. 

"So sensitive," Coën murmurs, letting go of the bard's throat to unlace his breeches and push them down to his knees, running a gloved hand over his bare thigh and hip. "Just the wat I like it."

Jaskier shivers under his touch, and he can feel suffocating blush crawl up his chest and neck from knowing what he looks like right now. He wants to get his clothes back on, to cover himself but his hands are still tied and there is nothing he can do. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he thinks that being only half-naked is somehow hotter than having no clothes at all. 

Geralt pushes deeper into his mouth, all the way to the back of his throat, and if Jaskier was less experienced, he would've choked. But they've spent many years together and the bard knows his way around, even though Geralt's size will never fail to overwhelm him. 

He moans, equal part pain and pleasure, and makes himself concentrate on breathing, his lips stinging as the witcher fucks into his mouth, spit and precome running down his chin. It's only when he starts suffocating that Geralt lets him go, breathing hard and deep, his cock flush and curving up towards his stomach.

There's a fallen tree - no more than a log by now - right behind the older witcher and suddenly, Jaskier is pushed towards it, hard enough to lose his balance and hit it with his chest, the fall broken by the soft moss. In this position, he's even more helpless, his back arched and knees spread. 

"Beautiful, isn't he?" he hears Coën murmur, leaning in to steal a long, sweet kiss from Geralt. 

In a way, Jaskier is still getting used to the fact that his two witchers have been sleeping together for decades now. 

While he still can, he tries to catch his breath but then he feels Coën's hands slip down his hips, can feel his fingers tease over the crease of his thighs and despite the tears welling up in his eyes, he leans into it. 

"Just like that," Coën purrs, hot and intoxicating, running his hot tongue over the line of Jaskier's spine. "You can cry all you want but we all know just how much you want it."

He reaches over and pushes two fingers into Jaskier's mouth, getting them slick with spit as he undoes his own trousers with his free hand and presses closer to the bard, making him moan at the feeling of his hard cock against the swell of his ass. 

Jaskier runs his tongue over the witcher's fingers, sucks on them, getting them as wet as he can because he knows that it's for his own good. They've spent a good ha;f of the morning getting him prepared for this game and he's still way looser than usual but it's been hours and he knows it's still going to hurt. 

It's hard to keep his head up in this position but Geralt doesn't give him much choice, kneeling next to him and tipping his chin up as soon as the younger witcher takes his fingers out of his mouth. 

Geralt's eyes are dark, more black than gold, and that makes Jaskier's head reel even more so than before, until he can't keep quiet anymore. 

"Kiss me," he chokes out, mouth falling open in a broken moan when Coën presses two fingers into him, pain and pleasure ripping through his body like fire. "Please, Geralt-"

He knows that he won't, that they've agreed upon it, but he still begs, because it's just too much to take. His dignity is not something that plays a role in this. 

Geralt doesn't answer, just chuckles, darting a look at the younger witcher, and runs his hand through Jaskier's hair, soft enough to be considered gentle, before getting a fistful and tugging, hard, until the bard wraps his lips around the head of his cock again, choking on a sob. 

"I'm not done with you yet, bard," he says, his other hand coming to grip Jaskier's shoulder, keeping his balance. 

His entire body burns, with Coën stretching him open with his fingers, fast and rough, leaving bites and bruising kisses on the bard's back and hips, and Geralt fucking into his mouth, making it nearly impossible to breathe again. 

He's painfully hard by now, leaking with precome and more than anything, he wants to be touched. If it wasn't for the belt holding his wrist together, he would've reached down between his legs already to dull the edge of his own lust at least a little. But he's not allowed to.

"You know, little bard," Coën murmurs, brushing against just the right spot inside and making Jaskier buck his hips, helpless. "If I had a little more patience in me, I could've stretched you enough for you to take both of us in."

That thought goes straight to Jaskier's cock, making it twitch almost painfully and he whines at the loss when Coën withdraws his fingers. He arches his back even more, trying to press himself closer to the witcher and if it wasn't for Geralt's grip on his hair, he would've begged. 

By the way Geralt's breath hitches, Jaskier knows he's close, and he presses his tongue to the throbbing veins of his cock harder, following every outline until Coën finally pushes into him and the bard suffocates on a moan, tears streaming down his cheeks. 

He's not stretched enough and it hurts in what feels like his entire body but it feels so _good_. 

Coën steadies him with one hand on the small of his back and the other one on his hip as he fucks into him, hard and fast, husky moans falling off his lips. 

It's overwhelming, unbearable, and Jaskier can feel his shoulders shake with tears as he does his best to try and breathe. 

Geralt pushes all the way to the back of his throat again, his cock throbbing on the bard's tongue and Jaskier swallows, hard, pushing the witcher over the edge. He growls, throwing his head back and spilling deep into the bard's throat, nearly making him choke. 

Jaskier moans, breathless, and swallows, his head dropping once Geralt lets him go. His throat and lips ache but he can't concentrate on that with Coën fucking into him, hitting just the right spot every time and making his knees shake. 

It's agonisingly good, being treated like this, used for his witchers' pleasure, and Jaskier barely lasts another minute before choking on a broken, desperate moan and coming all over his own stomach, painting it with streaks of white. Coën fucks him through it, the grip of his fingers on the bard's hip strong enough to leave bruises, and Jaskier is still shaking when the younger witcher comes, as well, filling him up with his spend. 

"Fuck," Coën whispers, laughing quietly as he slowly pulls out, sipping his head to leave a gentle kiss on the bard's back. "You alright, my love?"

Talking is still far beyond him, so Jaskier jut nods, collapsing onto the forest floor when his shaking knees can hold him no longer. 

Immediately, Geralt wraps his arms around him and pulls him closer, until Jaskier's head can rest on his broad chest. Through the haze in his mind, Jaskier only partially registers that the younger witcher cleans him off and does up the laces of his breeches, peppering soft, gentle kisses all over his stomach. He only finds it in himself to open his eyes when Coën drapes his cloak around him and settles down by his side, still trying to catch his breath. 

"Love you both," Jaskier breathes, eyes fluttering closed again when first Geralt and then Coën lean down to kiss him, sweet and gentle. "So much."

Both his witchers hum something content, their soft, warm touches grounding him, helping him breathe. 

"When we go to bed tonight," Jaskier finally says, propping himself up on one elbow and smiling with promise. "We might just try and see how much preparation it will take for me to take both of you in."


End file.
